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In the Land of Mirrors

Cuban Exile Politics in the United States

María de los Angeles Torres

Ann Arbor front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page iv

Copyright © by the University of Michigan 1999 All rights reserved Published in the United States of America by The University of Michigan Press Manufactured in the United States of America c Printed on acid-free paper

2002 2001 2000 1999 4321

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the British Library.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Torres, María de los Angeles. In the land of mirrors : Cuban exile politics in the United States / María de los Angeles Torres. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-472-11021-7 (alk. paper) 1. Cuban Americans—Politics and government. 2. Cubans—United States—Politics and government. I. Title. E184.C97T67 1999 324'.089'687294073—dc21 99-36965 CIP front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page v

In memory of Lourdes Casal, who built the bridge, and Eliseo Diego, who opened the door.

For my daughters, Alejandra María and Paola Camila Piers-Torres —may they relish their multiple heritage. front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page vi

De‹nición Exilio es vivir donde no existe casa alguna en la que hayamos sido niños; donde no hay ratas en los patios ni almidonadas solteronas tejiendo tras las celosias . . .

De‹nition Exile is to live where no house exists in which we have been children; where there are no rats in the patio or unmarried women in starched clothing knitting behind a trellis . . . —Lourdes Casal, Palabras Juntan Revolución (1981)

El Espejo Está dormido el espejo en la noche de verano. Las sillas, la mesa, el piano, dan un livido re›ejo como en los sueños de un viejo las memorias de otros años. Y el hilo que va en los paños iluminando el misterio, es el rojo farol serio del tren distante y extraño.

The Mirror The mirror is sleeping on a summer evening. The chairs, the table, the piano, give off a livid re›ection like the dreams of an old man the memories of other years. And the thread that goes through the tapestry illuminating the mystery, is the serious red lantern of the distant and foreign train. —Eliseo Diego, Nombrar las Cosas (1973) front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page vii

Contents

List of Illustrations viii List of Tables xi Preface xiii Acknowledgments xvii Introduction: Of Memory and Mirrors 1 Chapter 1. The Conceptual Framework: Nation-States and the Politics and Identity of Exiles 22 Chapter 2. El Exilio: National Security Interests and the Origins of the Cuban Exile Enclave 42 Chapter 3. The 1960s: Entrance, Backlash, and Resettlement Programs 62 Chapter 4. The 1970s: Pluralization, Radicalization, and Homeland 84 Chapter 5. The 1980s: Entering Mainstream Politics 105 Chapter 6. Cuban Exile Politics at the End of the Cold War 127 Chapter 7. The End of Socialism and Cuban Miami’s Transition 155 Chapter 8. Diaspora Politics and Identity: Rethinking Theory, Politics, and the Personal 176 Notes 201 Index 225 front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page viii

Illustrations

Entre Miami y La Habana / Between Miami and Havana

Eduardo Aparicio

The portfolio of diptychs in this volume combines images of Cuba (mostly of Havana, taken during my first return visit, in February 1994), and images of the Miami area. The presentation aims to be neither binary nor hierarchical, but rather to invite the viewer to see them as multiple versions of a shared reality. The task of determining at a quick glance what side of the Strait of Florida each image was taken is challenged. Instead of reinforcing contrasts, these diptychs point to the similarities in two realities that are generally considered opposites. These images question the currency of our national fetishes (the flag, the map of Cuba, the image of José Martí, the image of Che Guevara, the Cuban royal palm) at a time of a paradigmatic shift in the conceptualization of Cuban nationhood, while evidencing the erosion and deterioration of Cuban national iconography, both in Cuba and in Miami. The first public exhibition of these diptychs was in September 1996, at the gallery Espacio Aglutinador in Havana, curated by Sandra Ceballos. front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page ix

Aquí/Here 2

Rastro/Traces 24

Masculinidad y Nación/Masculinity and Nation 44

Triunfos/Triumphs 64

Martí 86

Iconos/Icons 106

Ayúdame/Help Me 128

Envíos/Shipments 156

Libres y Victoriosos/Free and Victorious 178

Eduardo Aparicio (b. Guanabacoa, Cuba, 1956) is a photographer and writer. He has lived in Miami since 1994. front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page x front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page xi

Tables

1. Total Number of Cubans Residing in the United States, 1850–1990 40 2. Exile Groups 58 3. Cuban Migration to the United States, 1959–72 72 4. Educational Attainment, 1960–93 77 5. Resettled Refugees by State, as of December 1972 81 6. Partial List of Bombings by Cuban Émigré Terrorists, 1973–80 102 7. Contributions by Individuals with Cuban Interests to Presidential Candidates 132 8. Individual and PAC Contributions to Congressional Candidates 133 9. Positions of Cuban Exile Community on the Future of Cuba 142 front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page xii front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page xiii

Preface

I was born in Cuba and sent to the United States at the age of six. I was one of the fourteen thousand unaccompanied children who came as part of what became known as “Operation Pedro Pan.” Like half of these children, I was reunited with my parents within months. Also like many other Cuban families who came to the United States in the early 1960s, we were relocated to Cleveland, Ohio. Raised outside the closely knit Miami émi- gré enclave, I was not protected from dehumanizing clashes with racism. These contributed to my search for alternative politics and my desire to return “home.” In the late 1960s and early 1970s I began to meet other Cuban exiles who, like myself, wanted to engage with our homeland. While we were a relatively small group, we managed to ‹nd our way back. The Cuban revolution seemed to offer an alternative to the social injustices we were witnessing in the United States. Yet, after years of returning to the island, I became aware of the corruption and abuses of the Cuban government—thus, the search for a perspective that could be critical of both governments. Each stage along the way has involved considerable emotional, political, and intellectual struggle. This book explores these journeys. My intellectual journey began as a graduate student at the University of Michigan. Lourdes Casal ‹rst suggested that I study Cuban exile politics. The chair of the department, however, asked why I would choose such an insigni‹cant voting group. I persisted, despite the graduate program director’s concerns about whether or not a Cuban exile could be “objective” in studying exiles. I do not hide the fact that my perspectives are informed and shaped by events that occurred in my homeland when I was young. My experiences of leaving Cuba in the early 1960s and growing up in the United States at a time of social and political upheaval have greatly marked my views as well.1 Other waves of Cuban exiles have arrived since the 1960s. My experiences differ from theirs in many ways. Yet there have been similarities in our dislocations; after all, the island has been ruled by one person for four decades, and U.S. policies toward Cuba have been hostile throughout this time. Although I share points of reference with other Cuban exiles, particularly of my generation, my views are my own. I question the validity of front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page xiv

xiv InPreface the Land of Mirrors

perspectives that attempt to speak for others, particularly when the “others” have lived in political circumstances in which debate about issues of politics and identity have been dif‹cult. I believe that part of the process of discovering who we are occurs as we enter into dialogue with others around us. This includes our personal narratives as well.2 Still, I am reluctant to give up the quest for theorizing. After all, there may be conceptual tools that can help us understand differences instead of simply generalizing and consequently diluting and distorting experiences.3 This process can begin by elaborating examples of those realities that cannot be placed neatly in one or another of the conceptual categories that dominate our understanding of social reality. Inquiry about human behavior is subjective, precisely because it is done by human beings. Fur- thermore, if we learn something new about ourselves in the process of inquiry, we ourselves change.4 I would add that what has driven me to “observe” and “participate,” and what has in the process changed me as well, has been my commitment to engage in an intellectual struggle particularly around issues that contribute to de‹ning who is entitled to participate in politics. My method of inquiry is eclectic. Over the past ten years I have sys- tematically interviewed key political actors in the exile community and in Cuba. I have also extensively reviewed government documents available in various libraries as well as those obtained through freedom of information requests. And I have taken notes of my personal involvement in the various political movements referred to throughout the book. The introduction that follows places this work at the intersection of the personal and the political.5 Chapter 1 presents the theoretical concerns of the book. The need for a more comprehensive theoretical and political perspective has grown more urgent in light of the restructuring of the international political economy. Regional blocs such as the European Union and the North American Free Trade Agreement transcend predetermined political borders. The boundaries of the nation-state no longer de‹ne people’s work or life experiences as rigidly as they did during most of the twentieth century. These developments call for new paradigms that explore the changing nature of borders. As such, I situate this study within the broader inquiry of the changing nature of nation-states and its impact on the politics and identity of diaspora communities. The ‹ve chapters that follow are divided roughly by decade. The questions posed take into account the development of Cuban exile politics and identity within a particular place in time, while emphasizing the state structures, institutions, and policies of two warring countries that in›uenced these processes. Chapter 2 unearths the origins of the postrevolution exile enclave in the 1960s. Chapter 3 looks at the development of the front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page xv

ChapterPreface xv

Cuban community over the 1960s. Chapter 4 traces the pluralization of exile politics in the 1970s, particularly regarding the relationship with the island. It was during this decade that many young exiles, myself included, sought to return home, eventually helping to organize a group of young Cuban exiles who visited the island periodically. Chapter 5 examines the emergence of Cuban-American political action committees in the 1980s, as many Cuban exiles from both sides of the political spectrum turned their attention to Washington, DC. By this time I had joined the board of one of the groups lobbying for changes in U.S.-Cuban relations. Chapter 6 ana- lyzes post–cold war developments and explores a moment that promised to bring reconciliation. Chapter 7 explores the transition of Miami, spurred mainly by the coming of age of a second generation of Cuban- Americans and the arrival of a new wave of exiles. In addition, I discuss the city’s signi‹cance to Cuban exile politics in general. Chapter 8, which concludes the book, revisits the theoretical issues raised in the ‹rst chapter and brings us back to the personal dilemmas that have in many ways served as the catalyst for my writing. front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page xvi front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page xvii

Acknowledgments

This book re›ects a journey I began when I was a graduate student at the University of Michigan. Al Meyer, Peter McDonough, Lourdes Argüelles, and Lourdes Casal made the initial steps possible. The Association for Critical Studies coordinated by Rudy Rosales was a truly exceptional intellectual support group at this stage. Frank Bonilla, Rebecca Morales, Edwin Melendez, Raul Hinojosa, Andy Torres, and Manuel Pastor, colleagues in the political economy working group of the InterUniversity Program on Latino Research, allowed me to place Cuban exceptionalism in a comparative perspective. It is this group’s framework that informs this book. Marifeli Pérez-Stable’s integrity and her own work on the Cuban revolution lay the groundwork for those of us seeking more intellectually honest perspectives on our histories. Carmen Díaz’s passion for theoretical and personal coherence and her generosity of spirit helped in our explorations of new theoretical frameworks. And Ruth Behar’s insistence that research could be conducted from a more “vulnerable” perspective encouraged me to weave personal narrative into my work. The work of scholars at the Institute for Policy Studies allowed me to understand the nature of the national security state in the United States, as did the support of Saul Landau, Philip Brenner, and Julia Swieg. Intellec- tuals I met in Cuba throughout the years, particularly Manuel Moreno Fraginals, Raquel Mendieta, Ivan de la Nuez, and Maruga and Josesito Alegria, have enriched my knowledge of Cuban history and aesthetics. The Instituto de Estudios Cubanos, headed by María Cristina Her- rera, and the Cuban Research Institute of Florida International Univer- sity, directed by Lisandro Pérez and Uva Clavijo, provided opportunities to present, debate, and receive feedback for a more complex understanding of our realities. Guillermo Grenier shared his surveys throughout the years. Insights provided by Cuban of‹cial documents would not have been possible without the access that Mercedes Arce arranged. My understanding of Cuban politics and identity was enriched through ongoing debates with other colleagues, particularly Rafael Hernández and Abel Prieto. front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page xviii

xviii InAcknowledgments the Land of Mirrors

Some of these exchanges were made possible through the Latin American Studies Association’s working groups. Wayne Smith and Andy Zimbalist facilitated these exchanges. At DePaul my work was supported by the administrations of Dick Meister, Mike Mezey, Larry Bennett, Pat Callahan, and Harry Wray. Other colleagues have provided intellectual and moral support; they include Jim Block, Beth Kelly, Ted Manley, Rose Spalding, Azza Layton, Ted Anton, Felix Masud-Piloto, Maria Masud, Marisa Alicea, and Mirza Gonzalez. Various editors gave me a public arena in which to debate my points of view, including George Black and Elsa Dixler of the Nation, Khachig Tölölyan of Diaspora: A Journal of Transnational Studies, and Clarence Page of the Chicago Tribune. I am especially thankful to Rich Bard of the Miami Herald, who gave me the space and support to develop my ideas in a context where it mattered most. Without Chuck Myers of the University of Michigan Press and the criticisms of anonymous reviewers, this book would not have seen the light of day. The writing of this book would not have been possible without the thoughtful reading and editing provided at different stages by Matthew Piers, Lisa Page, Achy Obejas, Lisa Milam, and Michelle Miller-Adams. I am deeply grateful for their insights, questions, and suggestions. Elizabeth McCormack and Ester Nieves helped research data for the tables for the book. Helena Beckett pulled together last minute details. I am grateful to Eduardo Aparicio whose pictures provide visual testament of our mirror realities. My ‹rst journeys back to the island were made with other Cuban exiles who, like myself, had a desire to reconnect with our homeland. My cotravelers on these early trips, with whom I shared not only the experience but also the struggle to understand our realities, included among many Mariana Gaston, Mauricio Gaston, Miren Uriarte-Gaston, Ana María Garcia, Carlos Muñiz, Raul Alzaga, Ricardo Fraga, Rafael Betan- court, Rosario Moreno, Iraida Lopez, and Armando Garcia. While we have ended up in different places, I am convinced that our returns made possible more complex and richer ways for Cubans on and off the island to engage with one another. Later on I worked with Manolo Gomez, Ramon Bueno, Silvia Arrom, Dagmariz Cabezas, and Flavio Risech, among others, to provide an alternative voice for Cuban progressives in Washington, D.C. Ramon Cernuda shared with me his understanding of the human rights movement in Cuba and its impact on the exile community. Liz Balmaseda opened a window into the heart of Miami. And Miami front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page xix

AcknowledgmentsChapter xix

became more than a transit point thanks to her and Dick and Caren Lobo. Friends from Cuba who later immigrated to the United States, such as Ileana Barros, José Luis Ferrer, Florencio Gelabert, and Madelín Cámara, contributed to making Miami a bit more like Havana. Throughout the years I have shared anxieties about Cuba and our place in the United States with many friends, including Nereida García, Natalia Delgado, Ricardo Fernández, Coco Fusco, María Bechily, and Rafael Ravelo. Bibiana Súarez, Guillermo Gomez Peña, Iñigo Manglano- Ovalle, Gini Sorrentini, Neri and Luci Barrientos, and Rodrigo del Canto have made me keenly aware that displacement is not only a “Cuban” condition. My families in Cuba, Pablo Armando Fernández and his wife, Maruja, their children, Jeca, Pepe, Teresa, Pablito, and Barbara, as well as the Diegos, Eliseo, Bella, Rapi, Liche, and Fefe, made the search for coherence possible. To my parents, Alberto Torres and María Isabel Vigil, who have always insisted on intellectual honesty and who helped with last minute edits on Spanish accents, and to my sisters, Alicia, Lourdes, and Isabel, with whom I have shared both personal and political parts of this journey, I thank for their support. To my daughters, Alejandra María and Paola Camila, and my husband, Matthew Piers, I owe the joy of being. front.qxd 10/11/1999 9:41 AM Page xx

A Note on the Photographs

Through images and play on words, Eduardo Aparicio’s series Entre La Habana y Miami explores similar theoretical and thematic territories as I do in this book. The images raise questions about the staying power of icons and words that have come to be associated with the very essence of the definition of what is Cuban, and as such propose new ways of looking at who we are and who we may become. His play on words and translations allude to the difficulties in understanding the “Cuban exile” within a narrowly defined linguistic or conceptual paradigm. For example, the word Entre in the title of the series connotes both a geographic connection—that is, a place between two points—as well as an intimate personal liaison. Rastro, literally a junk- yard, also means traces, or those things left behind. Envios, which visually refer to the shipments made to island relatives, can also be greetings, ways of reaching out. For about the first twenty years of exile since the Cuban revolution, separate realities defined our personal and political identities. There were those who stayed and those who left. Havana or Miami. Eduardos’ photos challenged the official posture of both governments by bringing together images of seemingly opposite realities in a single aesthetic project. But he does not offer easy solutions to this dilemma, rather he suggests that we need to explore both their commonalties and differences. For instance, Aqui (Here) underscores that Cuba, an island in the Caribbean, is still a shared geographic and emotional point of reference. Others suggest that exile undergoes an experiential translation. These paired images reconfigured the borders of our political identities, thus expanding the possibilities of places we could inhabit. The joint images, as such, no longer provoke a sense of dissonance. They do, rather, create new identities; a public consciousness which includes multiple geographic points of reference. intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 1

Introduction: Of Memory and Mirrors

Rupture

April 16, 1961. My parents nervously put my sister and me to sleep in the bathtub of our home in la Vibora, a middle-class neighborhood in Havana. Earlier that month Cuban authorities had warned of a possible U.S. invasion. Bathtubs were the safest spot in the house in case of bombings, they told us. Extraordinary routines had become customary. For a few weeks my uncle slept on the living room couch. An early supporter of Fidel Castro, now he had joined the counterrevolution. We were told not to tell anyone he was there. We were to call him “Pepegrillo,” a Cubanization of Jiminy Cricket, Pinocchio’s conscience in Walt Disney’s production. The Catholic school I attended had been closed for months. Instead, I would walk down the street to a neighbor’s house, where classes were held for the children on the block as my neighbor ironed clothes and brewed coffee through a stained cloth that hung over her kitchen sink. Then came the Bay of Pigs invasion. Many families, fearful of the aftermath, made plans to leave for the United States. We waited in long lines for smallpox vaccines, passport photos, passports, and visa waivers. Again we were sworn to secrecy. No one was to know that we were planning to leave the country. Finally, at dawn on July 30, 1961, my parents and I left our home. At the airport were hundreds of adults and children, some crying, others unusually silent. All the children wore name tags bearing the telephone numbers of relatives or friends in Miami. I kissed and hugged my parents. As I walked through the glass doors onto the runway, a guard abruptly stopped me and tried to take away a doll I was carrying. I grabbed it back and held it tightly. I must have given him a very angry look because he gave up and told me to keep going. (I kept my “Cuban” doll with me until I gave it to my daughter. When I did, I took out a whistle attached to its back and read that it had been “made in New Jersey.”) I boarded a plane ‹lled with small children and, forty-‹ve minutes later, arrived in the United States. intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 2

AQUÍ

MATANZAS, 1994 intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 3

HERE

MIAMI, 1996 intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 4

4 In the Land of Mirrors

At the Miami airport I was greeted by Americusa, my kindergarten teacher, who was then living in Miami. Americusa took me to Nenita and Pucho Greer’s home, friends of my parents who had agreed to care for me. Their kindness could not alleviate the pain of separation or replace the familiar routines of my home. School had always been a source of pride and accomplishment for me, but in Miami it was dehumanizing and dis- orienting. I sat in a crowded classroom and couldn’t understand a word the teacher said. A few months later Nenita almost miscarried and was con‹ned to bed for the remainder of her pregnancy. Pucho drove me to the house of my mother’s cousin, and again the sense of loss and fear set in. My parents arrived from Cuba a short time later and moved into the house in which I had been living. But everything had changed. My mother was chronically sad and worried constantly about the relatives she’d left behind. My father, in an effort to compensate, even started washing the dinner dishes. Everything that had held our family together—visits to my grandparents’ homes in El Vedado and Matanzas, weekend beach outings at Santa María del Mar, the park at the end of my block, neighbors, pets, our future as it had been imagined by my parents—was left in the past. Lying in bed on those early mornings in Miami, the sun bathed me, but I had to strain to remember the smell of humid red dirt.

Deconstructing Identity

By the end of my ‹rst year of school in the United States I had won the spelling bee. I learned to dance the “Mashed Potato” on the sidewalk of what would become Little Havana, and memorized the words to Petula Clark’s “Downtown,” which we pronounced “tountoun.” I could not know then that kids in Cuba were singing the same song in Spanish and also learning to dance “el Puré de Papa,” for engaging with those who had remained on the island, except with family members que no tenian otro remedio (had no other choice), was quickly becoming a forbidden act. My parents refused to stay long in Miami. Feelings against Cuban exiles were mounting. My father wanted to revalidate his medical license and felt that he would have better job opportunities outside of Miami. My mother was critical of the pretension and consumerism that characterized life there, particularly around the “doctor’s wives clubs.” So my father applied through Catholic Charities for relocation, and we were sent to Cleveland, Ohio. (In response to pressure from the state of Florida, the federal government had introduced a program to disperse Cubans throughout the United States—a program that white, North American sociologists argued would hasten the assimilation of Cubans.) The ›ight to Cleveland marked my second plane ›ight. This time we intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 5

Introduction 5

headed north with a hectic stop in the Atlanta airport. Now I was with my mother and two younger sisters, but Cleveland proved dif‹cult for me nonetheless. The cold weather and the racism were severe. By this time two cousins who had also been sent to the United States ahead of their parents had come to live with us. Every morning we walked two blocks to meet the school bus. The day after President Kennedy was assassinated the other kids on the block followed us, yelling that we had killed Kennedy. Their taunts grew louder as we boarded the bus: “You dirty Cubans, you dirty Cubans, you killed our President.” We were not those kinds of Cubans, I screamed back—we had ›ed the island. But the geographic and political boundaries that had so restructured our entire lives and rede‹ned our realities meant little to those who saw only “dirty Cubans.” The next day, we found our bicycles smashed, and my father gave us a lesson in self-defense. I remember thinking that these people saw us as bad, as their enemies, and that they also thought the Soviets were bad, that they were their enemies too. I knew that I was not bad; therefore, I reasoned, the Soviets were probably not so bad either. But I could not extend this logic to include Cubans on the island. I was not ready even to imagine crossing the political boundary that divided us. Even so, a sense of nostalgia gripped me as I entered the third grade. In a notebook I kept, I wrote poems and practiced Spanish by copying other poems. All the entries in my notebook made reference to good-byes, to the darkness of winter, to the sun I yearned for. The last entry was a sonnet written by Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda as she left the island for Spain centuries before, entitled “Soneto al Partir.” The next relative to arrive (not to leave, because by this time my point of reference was the United States, not Cuba) was my grandmother, who had been waiting in Spain for several months to come to the States. For several years there were no commercial ›ights between Cuba and the United States, and Cubans leaving the island would go to third countries ‹rst. She arrived with a present for me, an album by a hot new band, Meet the Beatles. After two winters in Cleveland we decided to head south. My father got a job in Dallas. My mother and sister ›ew to Texas, while my grandmother, cousins, and I drove with my father. We stopped at a gas station somewhere in the south that had two water fountains: one for “whites only,” the other for “coloreds” (the sign for which had been scratched out and replaced with the word niggers). We were not allowed to drink the water—we didn’t ‹t into either category—and we left thirsty. Texas is like nowhere else in the universe. The racist hatred I had felt in Cleveland awaited us there as well. After a year in Dallas we departed for one of the state’s farthest corners, Midland, the land of oil and Larry intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 6

6 In the Land of Mirrors

King’s Confessions of a White Racist, in which he writes of black women servants standing beside trash cans in the alleys behind rich folks’ houses at sunset, waiting for their husbands to pick them up. They were not allowed to wait inside or even in front of the homes in which they worked each day. My best friend was a black Cuban, Kay (years later I learned that she was killed by her pimp in Dallas). We attended a Catholic school that six years earlier had excluded Mexicans. As Cubans, Kay and I had a strong bond. She was a gifted pianist, and my father loved music. We also were bound by the graf‹ti we often encountered in bathroom stalls that read “niggers” and “spics.” When I was in the seventh grade, the John Birch Society began organizing in the parish after a young priest, sent to Midland upon the death of an older priest, began to give sermons based on the books of Saint Paul, with reference to peace and love—words that in the 1960s carried strong political connotations. The Birchers accused him of being a communist and tried to run him out of town. They chose my father as their spokesman and nominated him for the school board on an anticommunist platform. Emerging victorious, they began a series of McCarthyesque trials, with my father one of the most vocal proponents of ‹ring those considered to be communists. After some time the group successfully ran the new priest out of town. Needless to say, my father’s newfound political friends were racist. (For the average white Texan there was little difference between a “spic” and a “nigger.”) And in the long run North American anticommunists had no use for us either. Those who shared the worldview that was supposed to explain the dislocation from our homeland and herald us as the champions of anticommunism also wanted to run us out of town. Our windows were shot out, and threatening phone calls warned my mother that her daughters would be killed if we did not leave the country. Yet where were we to go? Where was our home? What was our identity? “Go back where you came from,” the angry diatribe we heard upon answering the phone, had no meaning for us. Even if we wanted to, we could not go back. Now and then we’d receive a letter from relatives on paper that carried the scent of a humid island. Or a friend or relative would come to the States. The only other Cuban family in Midland had supported Fulgencio Batista, the Cuban dictator whom Fidel Castro had overthrown, and, since my parents had been “Fidelistas,” we had little contact with them. I was busy anyway, thinking little about Cuba; instead, I had started dating, although behind my parents’ backs. They of course wanted me to go out only with chaperons, as they had in Cuba. It wasn’t until the early 1970s, while watching the evening news, that my unconscious past began to erupt. I watched—in an inexplicable intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 7

Introduction 7

panic—images of hundreds of Vietnamese children being loaded on planes bound for the United States. I too was once on a plane ‹lled with children, I remembered. And I began to question why. Why had I had been brought to the United States? I learned later that my coming to the United States was part of a U.S. State Department / Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) plan which became known as Operation Pedro Pan. The origins of the operation are still open to speculation, but it is clear that U.S.-backed propaganda frightened Cuban parents into thinking that the Castro government was going to take their children away and send them to the Soviet Union for indoctrination. Upon their arrival the U.S. government took those children without friends or relatives in the United States to camps in Florida, Iowa, and thirty-‹ve other states. While the expectation was that our parents would soon follow, meeting up with us at our ‹nal destination, relations between the United States and Cuba quickly deteriorated, as the revolution moved leftward and the United States stepped up its ‹ght. As a result, about four years passed before many of the fourteen thousand “Pedro Pans” were reunited with their parents. For many other children the separation would be permanent. As young Cubans became aware of the discrimination we faced in our adopted country and grew increasingly critical of the U.S. role in Vietnam, we came to question what had really happened in our home country. I began talking to North Americans who were part of the Venceremos Brigade, a group of New Left students and community organizers who went to Cuba on work brigades. These encounters were perhaps the most dif‹cult. Brigade members relished their connection to Cuba and authori- tatively spewed the rhetoric that we could not return because we were “gusanos”1 who had abandoned the revolution. “Yes, but I was six years old!” I’d say. “So what,” they would respond, “you were obviously middle-class, and as such your class origins make you unworthy of return.” The hypocrisy of their statements still stings today: few of them were working-class either. Cubans in the United States had become the Latino community that white North Americans could discriminate against—ironically, with the help of the Cuban government. It was after years of feeling the pang of this contradiction that I was ultimately politicized via the broader Chicano movement. I entered college in 1972, in the heat of the grape and lettuce boycott, the Raza Unida governor’s race, and a waning antiwar movement. I started to look for other Latinos: Mexican community activists, Puerto Rican students, and Chilean exiles who traveled to Cuba. The Chicano movement had a very narrow de‹nition of identity, which excluded anyone who was not born in the United States of Mexican descent. I was, after all, a Cuban; I always intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 8

8 In the Land of Mirrors

introduced myself as Cuban, adding quickly that I was not like the rest— whatever that meant. In contrast, members of Central de Accion Social Autonoma (CASA), a radical organization of Mexican political refugees who had ›ed the Mexican government’s repression of 1968, had a more inclusive de‹nition of Latino identity. Together with the Puerto Rican Socialist Party, they maintained close ties to Cuba. Unlike radical white North Americans, many of whom continue to discriminate against Cuban exiles, these Latinos understood the need to connect immigrant communities to their homelands. They supported my journey back to the island. At ‹rst I was ambivalent about returning. For a while I justi‹ed not returning, with the rationale that there was nothing left there for me to do; the revolution had alleviated social ills, so my social responsibility was to be articulated in other parts of the world. My radical politics and countercultural lifestyle increasingly alienated my parents and my extended family in Miami. Traveling to Cuba would be the de‹nitive break. Yet, the further I got from Cuba, the more I wanted to return. During a long driving excursion through Mexico and Central America, I sat outside our van watching bats dance in the moonlight by Lago Peten and ›ipping the radio dial until I connected with a Cuban station. I started to listen to Silvio Rodriguez and Pablo Milanes, songwriters of La Nueva Canción Latinóamericana. I read everything I could ‹nd about Cuba. The doors, little by little, were opened.

Return: (Re)Constructing Identity

In December 1978 I returned to Cuba for the ‹rst time. The relative calm- ness of the Carter years had allowed for a rapprochement between the United States and Cuba. On the island a political opening was under way, including a change of policy toward “the communities abroad.” My sister, Alicia, and I were invited to spend three days in Cuba as members of the Antonio Maceo Brigade, a group of young Cubans who, like myself, had been radicalized through various antiwar and civil rights movements. A Cuban airliner was to pick us up at the Atlanta airport, the same airport through which we had started our journey north. We were part of a delegation invited to Havana to engage in a dialogue with the Cuban government. We negotiated—or thought we did— the release of three thousand political prisoners (a phenomenon I did not understand until much later) and the right of Cubans to visit their homeland.2 More than that, however, we argued for the right to be able to go back and live in Cuba and to participate in political and military organizations. We wanted to be part of the nation. In the end we were denied the right of return by the Cuban government. I didn’t understand the reasons intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 9

Introduction 9

for or implications of this denial back then, for my ‹rst trip home was charged with memories and emotion. I spent three sleepless days crying. Like the sunlight that pours into a bedroom when the shades are suddenly drawn, memories of smells, colors, and faces broke through the layers of distance. Everything looked beautiful, even the young military guards poised with shiny ri›es whose job it was to guard the Palace of the Revo- lution from us. It was a time of optimism in Cuba. Elections were being held, peasant and craft markets were ›ourishing, and revolutionary governments had recently come to power elsewhere in the Caribbean. In the ‹rst year after our journey more than 120,000 Cubans returned to visit the island. Since then I have journeyed across the longest ninety miles of ocean in the world, the Florida Straits, countless times and in almost every con- ceivable way. I have organized work brigades of U.S. Cubans to construct schools and apartments. I have picked coffee beans and harvested citrus fruits. For years I thought it was my patriotic duty to gather for the nation all those young children who had been taken away. I believed that Cuba wanted us back. At times, however, I have returned to Cuba under threat of death. For the exile community reacted to our visits with violence and terrorism. One member of the Antonio Maceo Brigade, Carlos Muñiz Varela, was killed in Puerto Rico. Travel to Cuba has always been vulnerable to politics and internal bureaucratic warfare in both the United States and Cuba. The brief period of detente between 1977 and 1979 was a lucrative venture for the Cuban government, motivated by monetary gains rather than humanitarian concerns. It ended abruptly in early 1980 with the Mariel exodus and the election of the Reagan administration. The Reagan administration, understanding the power of symbolic politics, nurtured a group of conservative Cuban exiles and their hard-line policies toward Cuba while at the same time allowing the GOP to claim they were bringing Latinos into foreign policy positions in the federal government. With the launching of Radio Martí, a U.S.-sponsored propaganda station, the Cuban government, with fewer cards to play, took out its wrath on the entire Cuban community and reversed its policy of allowing family visits. Even the Antonio Maceo Brigade was barred from returning that year. I decided I would continue to return even if it meant returning with North Americans. For a while Cuban of‹cials tried to prevent progressive Cubans from doing this, but reason ‹nally prevailed, and many of us began to be included as the “Cuban-American” on delegations of North Americans to Cuba. Although we traveled with Cuban passports, we were placed in a strange category called “of Cuban origin,” which segregated us from the Cuban population as well as from foreigners. We were Cubans intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 10

10 In the Land of Mirrors

and not Cubans at the same time. In that border zone we had no rights, no protected links to the nation. We could only spend our money, and even that was subject to restrictions and unique rituals, such as the period in which we had to convert our dollars into government-issued coupons marked with a B, a monetary category invented for “la comunidad,” as we were politely referred to in Cuba. Constantly changing regulations determined in which stores and hotels our coupons could be used. In the late 1980s some of us were able to professionalize our relationship with our homeland. In my case I forged a link to the University of Havana, which made perfect sense for a professor at a U.S. university. (To this day I am committed to cultural and academic exchanges and to the struggle to strengthen and professionalize higher education in Cuba, a battle I am convinced will be waged regardless of what political and economic destiny awaits the island.) But these exchanges were not easy. There were few of us who managed to continue returning during the 1980s. When we return to Cuba we must ask the Cuban government for a reentry permit. I have at times waited in Miami for re-entry permits that never arrived. On the island Cubans who live abroad do not of‹cially exist, and those in state institutions who work with us are screened and authorized by the government. Even then they are vulnerable to the political winds. In one case I conducted a research project with a colleague who lost her administrative job in a political purge. Together we were reconstruct- ing the history of Operation Peter Pan. In doing so, we had tried to understand the moment of rupture. It was a personal journey for both of us. While her parents chose to return to Cuba after the revolution, mine decided to leave and did so by ‹rst sending me out. Students from the island and Cuban students from the United States worked with us; they also felt an urgency to understand a past that continued to de‹ne their realities. But the preliminary research I had gathered was sold to the Cuban government’s premier ‹lm institute without my permission and was used to produce a documentary that emphasized only the dirty tricks of the CIA. Politics permeates the search for this history. Memory in a sense is a militarized zone. Topics perceived to affect the country’s national security are always dif‹cult to navigate. Cuba’s “communities abroad” are a topic of national security concern because they are a result of emigration that has been likened to treason. To complicate matters, there is great suspicion about those of us who are engaged with the topic, since most of us who have emigrated live in a host country that is not only antagonistic toward our homeland but that has used émigrés to ‹ght its war with the island. Finally, independent-minded island intellectuals view us with suspicion as intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 11

Introduction 11

well, since we must be granted special permission from the Cuban government to conduct research in Cuba. While it is easier to engage in research about the United States, there are still parts of the of‹cial history that are dif‹cult to ascertain. The CIA, for example, denied my request to view documents about the origins of Operation Pedro Pan. “The CIA may neither con‹rm nor deny the existence or nonexistence of records responsive to your request,” the rejection reads. “Such information—unless, of course, it has been of‹cially acknowledged—would be classi‹ed for reasons of national security under Executive Order 12356.” We, Cubans on the island and abroad, are trapped in a national security war that seeks only to manipulate needs for political ends. Sometimes on the island I am able to lift the veil of secrecy and suspicion. My relationships and contacts with people in Cuba are many and varied. I have had long discussions with both high-level of‹cials and dissidents. I have relatives in Yaguajay and Havana. I have relished some love affairs and been devastated by others. I have friends who have triumphed and others who have met tragedy. A close friend committed suicide after his father had hung himself in despair when his daughter left through Mariel. Returning has always been dif‹cult, but it is made easier by close friends who have traveled to the United States or have been touched by our experiences. I have had two spiritual fathers—both sensitive, loving human beings—who have opened their homes to those of us who live in the United States because they insisted that we too are part of the nation. Both were also great poets, poets of a very special generation who held the keys to the nation: Eliseo Diego, a member of Origenes, and Pablo Armando Fernández, of Lunes en Revolución. They overcame their own factionalism to expand the frontiers of the island to embrace us. They understood our need to connect, and they trusted our motives for return. They built bridges with us and, perhaps most important, opened doors and windows into the soul of our nation to welcome us back. They have nurtured me through the most dif‹cult times of my life, including my near- separation from my husband, a Chicago-born son of Austrian Jewish refugees from World War II, who has not always understood my passion- ate love for an island in the Caribbean. And, thanks to Pablo, his wife, Maruja, and their children, my daughters have a home in Miramar, on la Calle 20. My older daughter, Alejandra, tells her friends she has two homes, one in Chicago and one in Havana. Paola, my younger daughter, has begun insisting on building her relationship with the island as well. In the late 1980s some young Cubans on the island went in search of intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 12

12 In the Land of Mirrors

the exile community, just as many of us had gone in search of our homeland in the 1970s. The crumbling of the economic and ideological framework that had held Cuba together since 1959 created a full-›edged crisis of legitimacy for the present government. The scramble for a new framework has sparked political debate about the de‹nition of the revolution and the nation. A key component of this debate is the nation’s relationship to those who have left the island. Cuban of‹cials have rejected this search for new de‹nitions with hostility. Critics were christened the “new gusanos.” But other voices said that Cubans who had left were part of the nation and should be included in discussions of its economic, political, and cultural future. This view was echoed by every major internal opposition group, all of which also support an easing of U.S. pressure on the island. Signi‹cantly, increasing numbers of young Cubans in the United States are calling for the same. This generational pressure is a growing reality in the U.S. Cuban community, as its younger members are not necessarily inclined to support attempts, favored by some elders, to retake the island. They are more interested in their lives in the United States and increasingly concerned with establishing a more democratic culture within their own émigré community in the United States. And, while many are staunchly anti-Castro, most also want a normal relationship with Cuba. Yet discussion about Cuba’s future and U.S.-Cuban relations is not easy, either in Cuba or abroad, although undeniably it is much easier in the United States. In Cuba, while wide-ranging discussions took place within the Communist Party in the early 1990s, in public the government rallied its citizens to unify behind an increasingly hard of‹cial position that made debate or dissent risky. Human rights activists were accused of working as agents for the U.S. government and jailed under laws that pro- hibit the right of assembly. Important cultural institutions that traditionally had been havens for free thinkers were often threatened by vicious turf ‹ghts among bureaucrats. These power struggles ended up destroying many valuable programs.3 Debate in the United States has been problematic as well. In 1989 the FBI named Miami the capital of U.S. terrorism after eighteen bombs went off in the homes and businesses of Cuban exiles working to improve relations with Cuba. Hard-line organizations, such as the Cuban-American National Foundation (CANF), accused those supporting better relations with Cuba of being agents of the Castro government. Incredibly, CANF’s plans for the reconstruction of Cuba do not include the participation of people actually living in Cuba. Sometimes, however, there are cracks in both empires. The economic crisis on the island forced government of‹cials to change policies. In the intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 13

Introduction 13

summer of 1992, at an international conference on economic opportunities in Cuba, a government representative announced that the government would welcome investments from Cubans living off the island—a radical break with a thirty-one-year-old position that excluded any Cuban living abroad from such transactions. And younger Cubans on the island have defended their artistic freedom and often included in their de‹nition of culture that which is created by Cubans abroad. In Cuban communities abroad a realignment occurred in the political center, which included “dissidents” from the Right and the Left as well as recently arrived exiles with radically different views and experiences of the revolution than exiles of the 1960s. Together, they were struggling for a more democratic culture in their communities and a reconceptualization of their relationship to the island. They too publicly called for an easing of U.S. pressure on the island. They supported internal movements in Cuba that called for a national debate and condemned the idea of a U.S.- imposed solution to Cuba’s problems. Many young Cuban exile professionals welcomed an opportunity to deal with the island as well. But all these developments were met with intransigence on the part of those in power on the island. Every time it seemed as though the United States was ready to normalize relations, the Cuban government acted in such a way as to guarantee that they would not do so. The Cuban government’s shooting down of two Hermanos a Rescate planes in 1996, resulting in the deaths of four men, was but one example. Ironically, the United States reacts in ways that favor the hard-liners in Cuba. On that occasion Congress passed and President Clinton signed the Helms-Burton Act, which tightened the economic embargo of the island. Despite these new barriers, I continue to travel to the island when I can. With each trip I ‹nd more similarities between myself and my friends there, although increasingly I understand as well the ways in which two very different and feuding societies have marked us. Cubans both on and off the island are in search of a new context, a new identity—one we can call our own. In part this is a search for memory, our memory. We are rede‹ning what it means to be Cuban. For those of us in the United States it also means rede‹ning what it means to be an “American”—really what it means to be both. For me this rede‹nition must include the opportunity for a normal relationship with the nation of my birth; for my friends in Cuba it requires a rede‹nition of nation. Our needs coincide. A normal relationship with my homeland can only be achieved if the nation of Cuba is rede‹ned to include those of us who have left and those who will yet leave. It also will require a new and less hostile U.S. policy toward Cuba. From 1959 to the present everyone who has left has been branded as a traitor on the island and a hero in the United States. For intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 14

14 In the Land of Mirrors

Cubans on the island a constructive de‹nition of nation means collecting elements of a past that were erased by of‹cial interpretations of history. Émigrés are a part of that past. We are united by the shared urgency to reclaim the past, to move beyond the 1950s and into the next century. Nevertheless, our political cultures are very different. I am an activist. To survive in the United States and lay claim to my identity as a Cuban and a Latina—as well as to return to Cuba—I have to ‹ght for political space every day. My friends on the island shun activism because in their world it is only opportunists who participate in politics. They see politics exclusively as the exercise of power and have no public space in which even to imagine political protest. My countercultural experience was about changing the world; theirs is about the desperation and frustration of being unable to change theirs. I am part of a broader Latin American community in the United States: I live and struggle with Mexicanos, Puer- toriqueños, and Centro-Americanos who are also in search of coherence. Despite of‹cial rhetoric on the island that portrays Cuba as part of the Latin American family, many of my close Cuban friends do not see themselves as Latino Americanos. In this sense they are closer than I am to Miami Cubans, many of whom also hold themselves apart from the larger Latino community. I, on the other hand, am anchored in a broader U.S. Latino experience. Today it is not just politics but also economics that divides our experience. When I am in Havana I can invite island friends out to dinner, but they cannot reciprocate, as more and more restaurants in Cuba now accept only U.S. dollars. I do not worry about feeding my children or about ‹nding medicine for my daughters who suffer from asthma. The daily lives of my friends in Cuba are increasingly consumed by preoccupa- tions such as these, and there are few prospects that the situation will improve in the near future. More and more Cubans have loved ones—daughters and sons, brothers and sisters, cousins, best friends—who have left the island or may leave soon. Growing numbers of professionals, writers, and artists ‹nd they cannot work in Cuba. Emigration is as much a part of the national experience today as it always has been. Cuba is a nation of immigrants and emigrants. Most of us live in the United States, a country made up mostly of immigrants. Thus, I have come to think that categories of national identities that exclude immigrants—be they from the home or host country perspective—are narrow and politically shortsighted. So, too, is the perspective of Cubans in the United States who fail to see that Cuba after 1959 is part of our experience. Regardless of where we ‹nd ourselves, we share a common experience with other Cubans: our birthplace. And we have been indelibly marked by intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 15

Introduction 15

the historical moment at which our homeland sought to create an independent nation. This is not the only aspect of our experience that de‹nes who we are, but it is a critical component of our identities. I cannot explain why our birthplace is so important in our de‹nition of who we are, but for Cubans it is. Maybe the war of independence is still close to our family experience. My mother remembers her grandfather’s twisted hands, a product of Spanish torture he endured for having fought in Cuba’s war of independence. But maybe it is because Cuba was never truly able to establish an independent republic and is still struggling for one. We have few words or concepts with which to understand or name what we are experiencing. Everything about us—our past, our identity, our similarities and differences, our loyalties—has been prey to the larger forces of world politics. Not only are we con‹ned to categories of “us and them,” with reference points of north and south, “lo Americano y lo Cubano,” but we also have been cast in terms of east and west, communism or freedom, the cold war. Those of us caught in the cold war had few, if any, analytical concepts with which to evaluate and understand our experiences, particularly those that emerged from collisions between two distinct economic, political, and cultural spaces. For communities in the battle zones of the cold war, the world was one-dimensional: everything was either/or. Any variation from this perspective could be interpreted as treason by the “other” side. Each time I cross time and space, between Cuba and the United States, between cultures and economic systems, I am more resolute in my refusal to accept the either/or dichotomy of my identity—a dichotomy that demands I choose sides. My identity is far more complex than this. For years I neatly put away pieces of my being in different parts of the world, but I know now that I need not accept categories that split my identity in two. Instead, I must construct new categories, new intellectual, political, and emotional spaces in which my dual identities can be joined.

The Intellectual Journey

This book is an effort to understand the politics of the cold war as they played out in the lives of Cuban exiles. This includes understanding the national security policies of two states as well as the conceptual corollaries that contributed to militarizing the politics and identities of Cuban exiles. The backdrop that initially framed the Cuban diaspora was a populist, nationalist revolution promising sovereignty and social justice to an island nation. But power quickly became concentrated under one man, and the promise of national unity became an excuse to repress dissent. In the world arena the Cuban revolution emerged as a point of contention in the cold intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 16

16 In the Land of Mirrors

war. For the international Left the Cuban revolution restored the utopian dream of socialism that had been distorted by Stalinism; for the free world it marked the expansion of the evil empire. Thus, an island in the Caribbean became a key symbol in the intense competition between the two economic and political systems of the twentieth century: socialism and capitalism. Neither system or accompanying ideology has proven effective in resolving questions of human needs and rights. Socialism, while providing a fairer distributive mechanism for social goods, has been inef‹cient. The bureaucracy that displaced the market stymied society’s productivity, and, while it may have been a more equitable system, it generated less to dis- tribute. Moreover, the unchecked political process characteristic of socialist systems proved to be corrupt and repressive. The workers’ state represented through a one-party system denied the richness of human diversity. The very notion of the “vanguard,” the goal of revolutionary organizations, proved to be elitist and autocratic. Capitalism, on the other hand, has not ful‹lled its promise that wealth will trickle down. Furthermore, inequality within a society’s economic and social spheres ultimately has affected the political sphere as well. Class, gender, race, and national origin became factors upon which political participation was based. Citizens did not have equal access: those who were powerful in private arenas wielded more in›uence in public institutions as well. In addition, many capitalist countries employed policies in the international sphere that proved incompatible with the political values espoused in the domestic sphere. At home such nations provided mechanisms for the exercise and contestation of public power, but abroad they conducted unchecked, aggressive, and authoritarian policies that had the immediate effect of consolidating military regimes in the periphery. More- over, these imperialist and colonial adventures often led to massive population displacements. Individuals dislocated to the metropolises were not afforded the same rights as “native” workers. The failures of both socialism and capitalism force us to review and rethink recent history. This is not an easy task. The intensity of the ideological competition between these two systems has made critical re›ection dif‹cult. Yet an attempt to reconstruct and understand the past is necessary. For diaspora communities this requires us to reexamine the reasons behind resettlement, the subsequent development of exile communities, and the role they play in the politics of both host and home countries. Intellectually, I was driven by a need to understand the nature and persistence of nationalism (or what was called the “national question” during the late 1960s and early 1970s), particularly within immigrant communities. But the theoretical framework available for the study of Latino pol- intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 17

Introduction 17

itics, including Cuban exile politics, ignored the more progressive groups that insisted on retaining links with their culture and their homelands. Radical politics was not an object of study for traditional social scientists. Until recently we have had very limited frameworks through which to understand Latino politics. For years the study of this subject was conducted within the framework provided by traditional political science. At the time, political science inquiry emphasized traditional methods of participation like voting and consequently limited the scope of inquiry to domestic politics. Low voter turnout in Latino communities was explained by culture and ethnicity: Mexicans are passive, Puerto Ricans unsettled. Some of the ‹rst Latino scholars to study Latino politics were compelled to question these stereotypes. Many of their studies ended up dispelling the importance of ethnicity as a factor in political mobilization. Further- more, attempts to study home country connections were met with hostility.4 These scholars sought to show that Latinos were as American as anyone else.5 Not surprisingly, this movement in academia had a political counter- part as well, for ideas and paradigms re›ect broader social forces and situations. Groups such as the League of Latin American Citizens and the GI Forum were founded after World War II to help integrate Latinos into the mainstream of society. Other groups, such as the Mexican American Polit- ical Association, sought entry into the Democratic Party, which had so adamantly excluded them in the past.6 Curiously, the strongest advocates of assimilation were from Texas. The late 1960s witnessed an explosion of radical activity in the Latino community. Initially, this movement included groups like Raza Unida, which emphasized ethnicity while seeking integration. A little later other groups, such as Central de Acción Social Autónoma (CASA), an organization established by Mexican political refugees; the Puerto Rican Social- ist Party; and Areíto, a magazine of young Cuban exiles, sought to establish relations with their homelands. These movements challenged the prevailing modes of studying Latino politics by defying the prediction that ethnicity and homeland issues were not part of the political agenda of the community. The internal colonial model emerged, which sought to combine issues of class and race with a historical view.7 Numerous scholars set out to study the political activism of Latino communities while challenging the narrow de‹nition of politics as an activity reserved for the electoral arena. Many of these studies emphasized social mobilization as the key to understanding Latino politics.8 Rich accounts of the historical linkages between Mexicans and Mex- ico were published,9 as were studies documenting the relations between Puerto Ricans on the mainland and the island.10 intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 18

18 In the Land of Mirrors

Others, myself included, sought to understand the linkages with home countries and how these in›uenced émigré communities in the United States. My earlier work examined Cuban exile politics as a case study of the U.S. state.11 I wanted to explore how U.S. government policies toward Cuba (foreign policy) and toward Latinos in the United States (domestic politics) in›uenced exile politics. The Carter and Reagan years provided two distinct periods for comparing these policy influences. I concluded that U.S. policies were decisive factors in the development of Cuban exile politics. Cuban exiles had both foreign and domestic policy concerns, as did the U.S. state with exiles. During periods of con›ict between our host and home countries, the exile part of our experience was at the forefront. In contrast, when relations eased, domestic concerns were played out. In addition, a more normal relationship between Cuban émigrés and our homeland de-emphasized the condition of exile. With the passage of time Cuban exiles were beginning to resemble other Latino communities in search of political in›uence and empowerment. I concluded that Cuban exiles were on their way to becoming an ethnic minority, a ‹nding that ‹t in with the minority model of political socialization. I was still, however, bound by a U.S. perspective, the perspective of a single nation-state. A few years later dramatic changes in Cuba’s policies toward its communities abroad allowed me to return home. I also witnessed the effects of these home country policy changes on the exile community. I then began to include Cuban policies in my analysis, expanding the framework of inquiry beyond the borders of the United States.12 It seemed at the time that the Cuban government wanted reconciliation with the exile community. But gradually I saw haunting symmetries in the ways both states dealt with Cuban exiles, from the point of departure in Cuba to the point of entry in the United States. Each nation administered its policies toward the group from within its national security apparatus. National (in)securities were being played out, in part, through this community of exiles. This parallelism in the policies of two feuding states—mirror images, re›ected across the bright waters of the Florida Straits—deeply in›uenced Cuban exile politics. “In the Land of Mirrors” seemed the appropriate title for this book. In 1980 another massive wave of Cubans came to the United States through the port of Mariel. The Cuban government blamed visits to the island by exile community members. By the mid-1980s the doors to the island were once again shut. New exiles and the inability to engage normally with our homeland contributed to reemphasizing our sense of being exiles. Still, I continued to avoid the exile community itself. While I had always identi‹ed myself as Cuban, my anti–Vietnam War position and my intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 19

Introduction 19

support of the civil rights movement contributed to my estrangement from the community. Furthermore, my interest in returning to Cuba resulted in a second exile. The ‹rst was my parents’ exile, which automatically made me a traitor to Cuba. Returning now to Cuba made me a traitor to the exile community—an exile among exiles. Those of us who dared to travel to Cuba, particularly if we showed sympathy for the government, became targets of anti-Castro terrorism. Miami became a place through which I would pass with great fear on my way to and from the island. It was not until a few years later, while conducting an in-depth study of the early years of exile, that I began to appreciate the dynamics of the exile community in shaping its own politics and identity. Our existence as a community of exiles in the United States crossed many worlds. We were pawns in the larger geopolitical struggles in the Caribbean between two feuding states. We were exiles from our homeland because there were few meaningful vehicles of political dissent that did not lead to jail or exile. Yet we were still outside mainstream U.S. culture, despite the political rhetoric of Cubans as the “golden exiles.” I discarded the minority model and again considered the exile experience as critical. Exile, after all, as Lourdes Casal so eloquently expressed, is both a political and personal displacement. Time does not erase the effects of dislocation. The doors were eventually opened again, and I resumed traveling to the island. In the next few years the fall of the Berlin Wall gave renewed impetus to the possibility of change in Cuba. But many forms of contestation were met with repression. Government policy began to encourage emigration. Others simply launched their fate to the sea on makeshift rafts. Intellectuals, artists, and writers began ‹nding work abroad and overstayed their visas. Among them were close friends I had made in my travels to the island. I became convinced that U.S. policy toward Cuba only encouraged greater repression from the hard-liners there. In response I engaged in policy-related research, encouraged collaborations in my research projects, and helped organize the Cuban-American Committee’s Second Genera- tion project, which sought to bring together Cubans from the island and from the States to talk about policy alternatives that could lead to a reconciliation among us. But, the more successful we were in opening the debate in the United States, the more dif‹culties we encountered in Cuba. Over time I realized that many of those in power in Cuba did not want better relations. What helped me most during this period was participating in a multi- national and multidisciplinary research group of the Inter-University Pro- gram on Latino Research. For years the program’s leader, Frank Bonilla, had insisted that we need a more comprehensive paradigm with which to intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 20

20 In the Land of Mirrors

understand U.S. Latino reality. Such a paradigm would have to include an understanding of both home and host countries as well as the development of various Latino communities.13 While each group is unique, there are similarities. The burden of “Cuban exceptionalism” was somehow less- ened by understanding that there are comparable situations faced by all Latino groups—including their ambivalent relationship to homeland. The studies sponsored by this research program have raised serious questions about the narrowness of the political options available to émigré communities whose lives are affected by multiple states. Cuban émigrés, for example, have had two political options: staying on the island and defending their home country or joining an “enemy state” and thus becoming “traitors” to their homeland. Once in the United States, in order to acquire citizenship, émigrés must swear an oath of exclusive allegiance to the United States of America. Yet the identity of Cubans off the island (and of course other immigrants as well) is far more complex than either of these options allows. Members of diaspora communities often reside in multiple states or have at least traveled through them. Therefore, while the condition of loyalty to one nation-state diminishes the exile’s capacity for genuine political involvement—and simultaneously leaves the exile vulnerable to the policy whims of numerous nation-states—being compelled to accept one-nation citizenship also blunts and silences the diaspora experience. As I continued to look at the situation of Cubans, I was struck by the similarities between the intolerance I found in the exile community and on the island. But two incidents made me recall the differences and reminded me of points of reference shared with other Latinos. In 1990 “Rapid Response Brigades” organized by the Cuban state security apparatus broke into the home of María Elena Cruz Varela, a Cuba-based poet, and tried to force her to eat lea›ets she had written. She was then jailed for “actions against the security of the state,” in her case organizing a group of independent, critical intellectuals. Ultimately, she was forced out of the country. Her son was not permitted to travel with her. In 1994 Magda Montiel, a Miami-based Cuban-American lawyer who once ran for Congress, attended a Cuban government–sponsored conference on the island, where she was unwittingly videotaped as she thanked Fidel Castro for everything he had done for her people and added, “you are a great teacher.” Upon her return to Miami images of this encounter were broadcast repeatedly on television stations across the city. The Cuban government had sold the videotape to the international press. A group of protesters who had applied for and been given a march permit staged a demonstration outside her home. FBI agents and the Miami police protected her home and investigated telephoned death threats intro.qxd 10/11/1999 9:42 AM Page 21

Introduction 21

aimed at Montiel and her family. Clearly, the culture of intolerance was at play in both incidents, yet one difference was critical: on the island the state perpetuated the violence; in Miami the state protected the victim and prosecuted the perpetrators. More important, in Miami Montiel could ‹ght back. Exercising her freedom of speech, she went on a media offensive, posing for a photograph wrapped in a sheer cloth imprinted with the Declaration of Independence. The dark curtain that has separated the Cuban nation for thirty-‹ve years has created many illusions. We could never really know how bright or dim was the light that seeped through the occasional holes that appeared. But, little by little, the curtain has become more transparent. At ‹rst the similarities of the blurred images were more obvious, perhaps more comforting. But, as the focus sharpened, so did the contrasts. This difference is critical. Reconciliation is not only about ‹nding common ground; it is also about understanding our differences. In this sense “In the Land of Mirrors” is a metaphor for still another stage in this complicated and often painful process of discovery: not only must we ‹nd ourselves re›ected in the other; we also must recognize our differences and our distinct ways of observing one another. For this we need to be tolerant of difference. Such a perspective demands a more open political system in which both similarities and differences can be accommodated. Finally, perhaps most important, reconciliation will require a long, hard look at ourselves—at the image we project upon the mirror— and a coming to terms with our enemies/selves. The process of reconciling with oneself, however, begins by understanding that what once was can no longer be. Re›ections need distance. And distance contributes to the construction of memory. In this realm Eliseo Diego’s mirror sleeps while other objects take its place, and the tex- ture of history/memory can be appreciated through the various threads that illuminate its mystery at a distance. It is in this place of contemplation and critical re›ection that I now understand the title to this book. ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 22

CHAPTER 1 The Conceptual Framework: Nation-States and the Politics and Identity of Exiles

The movement and resettlement of people from one land to another has been a signi‹cant part of human history. Natural disasters, war, and changing economic, social, and political conditions have forced people to relocate over and over again. With the rise of an international economic system the movement of people and the communities formed in new lands were closely related to colonial conquests. Colonial armies were important means of generating migrant streams of soldiers who would later settle many of the colonies.1 This was particularly true of the Spanish Empire. In other cases, such as the British Empire, colonial settlement patterns included families as well. In general, the direction of the movement of people was from the metropolis to the colonies. The global exchange of capital and labor reversed this direction, and the movement ›owed from the periphery to the metropolis. In the Western hemisphere the United States exported ‹nished products and capital; Latin American countries exported raw products and labor. The rise of the nation-state established procedures through which the movement of goods and people was processed, thereby politicizing population exchanges. The state became the regulator of such exchanges. The nature of these processes and the conditions in which they occurred had an extraordinary in›uence on the development of the politics and identity of diaspora communities—that is, communities of people from one nation-state living in another. Nation-state, an eighteenth-century phenomenon that ‹nds its maxi- mum expression in the twentieth century, de‹ned the unit of political organization as one contained in a geographically demarcated space. Under this notion of organization, public power is organized and contested within the geographic boundaries of nation-states, which also de‹ne the economic and social organization of societies. Within the nation-state construct, then, the state regulates the public affairs of the nation. Yet the precise nature of these regulatory functions,

22 ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 23

The Conceptual Framework 23

and where in the state bureaucracy they are located, has varied from nation to nation and indeed even within national boundaries. Activities that pertain to relations with other countries, however, are generally clustered in the foreign affairs of the state. While immigration issues have tremendous domestic implications, they are generally attached to foreign policy matters. The very notion of citizenship is intricately linked to the rise of the nation-state. With the formation of nation-states came new conditions that de‹ned the rights of individuals, particularly in relation to the state. These included legal categorizations that de‹ned who would be entitled to these rights. Thus, citizenship became a right to be granted or denied by the state. While legal variations exist about how citizenship is conferred (in German law it is passed from parent to child; in Spanish, French, and British law, place of birth is the determining factor),2 all nation-states make citizenship and residency a requirement of political participation. Citizenship is not extended to all residents, and immigrant participation in public affairs is usually dependent on legal status; legal but nonnaturalized residents and “illegal” residents, for instance, are not allowed to vote. Furthermore, citizenship assumes loyalty to a single state. Even when multiple citizenship is permitted, as is the case in the United States, an immigrant is required to swear an oath of allegiance to the United States in order to become a naturalized citizen. Naturalized citizens—that is, those not born in the United States—are expected to leave their homelands behind when it comes to public affairs. The “nation” element of the nation-state concept carries certain embedded assumptions, particularly with regard to citizenship. One of these is the conception of the nation as socially and culturally homogeneous. Those who are citizens are expected to have a common cultural base. Even in the United States, which initially de‹ned the body politic according to criteria such as property ownership, gender, and race, a romanticized abstraction of the androgynous, classless, raceless citizen nonetheless prevailed. Social and political identity are closely linked precisely because of the coupling of nation and state—the nation being the soul, culture, history, and social structures, and the state serving as the regulator of these elements. Political identity is de‹ned and regulated by the state. But the concept of citizenship does not exist in a vacuum, disjoined from other facets of society, particularly in societies marked and divided by racism or “racialized” ethnocentrism in which factors such as race and national origin have determined who is to be awarded citizenship. Nor is citizenship isolated from questions of politics, as is the case for totalitarian regimes that demand loyalty in order to grant citizenship or even to recognize an ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 24

RASTRO

LA HABANA, 1994 ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 25

TRACES

MIAMI, 1996 ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 26

26 In the Land of Mirrors

individual as part of the nation. It is in this intersection that a recognition of social identities, including ethnic and national identities, is critical for understanding who has access to the political system and, in turn, how communities excluded from the political process organize in order to be included. Inquiries into nation-states and political organization lead to the topic of political identity. As such, this book also explores questions pertaining to the identity of diaspora communities in the context of changing nation-states at the end of the twentieth century. Identity, as the term is used in this book, is a social construction that requires ongoing negotiation between the individual and the broader society. Social and political identity consists of at least two important dimensions that act independently of each other and interact as well: the society’s construction of an individual or a group’s identity; and the individual’s or community’s self- constructed identity. Despite the larger forces at play, the study of immigrant communities in the United States usually begins with an attempt to understand the motivations that contribute to an immigrant’s decision to leave the homeland. Yet individual motivations alone do not necessarily explain a social phenomenon. Social science literature has begun to uncover the conditions in sending and receiving countries that contribute to immigrant ›ows. This has led to a debate over how to classify those arriving in a new nation- state. Social science literature of the past ‹fty years distinguishes between immigrants (those who leave their homeland voluntarily in search of better economic opportunities), refugees (those forced from their homeland for a variety of reasons), and exiles (those expelled from their homeland for political reasons). These distinctions in›uenced the legal status granted to incoming migrants. Such distinctions, however, fail to capture what is surely a more complicated phenomenon in which these various factors combine in different ways to create unique diaspora experiences. From these resettlement experiences, moreover, different kinds of social formations have emerged. Will the exiles return home when political conditions change? Will immigrant communities be assimilated within the dominant culture in the second generation? Are they detached pieces of their nation of origin, colonias that tenaciously preserve their original culture? Or do these communities forge altogether new identities that both preserve their own culture and alter that of the country they come to inhabit, both physically and emotionally, thereby calling for a new vision of politics? While social science literature has tried to categorize movements of people and their settlements according to various criteria, Khachig Tölölyan suggests using the term diaspora. He writes in the introduction to ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 27

The Conceptual Framework 27

Diaspora: A Journal of Transnational Studies, “We use diaspora provision- ally to indicate our belief that the term that once described Jewish, Greek, and Armenian dispersion now shares meanings with a larger semantic domain that includes words like immigrant, expatriate, refugee, guest- worker, overseas community, ethnic community.” “Cubans,” he goes on, “are a transnational collectivity, broken apart by, and woven together across, the borders of their own and other nation-states, maintaining cultural and political institutions.”3 Diaspora communities provide windows through which we can look at state structures to understand both their nature as well as their changing dynamics in an era of transnationalism. After all, diaspora communities have experienced both the porous and intransigent aspects of state borders in this century. Many have learned ‹rsthand that organizational and emotional schemes based on the notion of singular nation-states, such as distinctions between home and host country cultures, assume a homogeneity in these locations that simply does not exist. In fact, it is not uncommon for immigrants to return to their home countries only to ‹nd them more “Americanized” than the enclaves they have built in the United States or Europe. Today images and culture pass between countries easily and rapidly, thereby producing and making available multiple sources of culture.4 Global youth culture, for instance, is ubiquitous, as is the successful marketing of “ethnic” culture. Obviously, this commodi‹cation of culture beyond national boundaries is not the same as genuine political empowerment, but with regard to identity issues it changes the available points of reference people have in which to anchor their selves. Today we may be witnessing the rise of a transnational identity, one most visible in those who have crossed many borders—an identity that, for communities of diaspora people, is grounded in multiple cultures and re›ective of a hybrid experience. The changing nature of the frontiers of nation-states also suggests that politics itself—the notion of who is entitled to participate and where and how—may change.5 Particularly within diaspora communities, people are affected by actions carried out by governments over which they have little in›uence. Their newcomer status in host countries affords diaspora communities limited voice in public affairs. Home country governments likewise make decisions that affect diaspora communities residing beyond the state’s geographic jurisdiction. Some countries are extending voting rights to their communities abroad, while many host countries are limit- ing, or in some cases removing altogether, the few avenues immigrants have had to voice their opinions. Few analytical and legal concepts go beyond the nation-state as the parameter for political participation that can accommodate the exile’s involvement in both host and home country ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 28

28 In the Land of Mirrors

politics. An in-depth look at the evolution of one diaspora community raises questions about the limits of the avenues available for meaningful engagement in politics by such groups.

National Security States and the Movement of People

While all nation-states share certain characteristics, they have particular formations as well as distinct regimes.6 The state in the United States changed radically as a result of its engagement in war. The beginnings of the surveillance state can be traced back to the Woodrow Wilson administration’s obsession with loyalty during World War I.7 But the consolidation of the national security state occurred after World War II. The U.S. state apparatus emerged from World War II radically transformed: for example, the percentage of federal employees involved in activities related to national security rose from 30 to 70 percent.8 This transformation also resulted in an increased proportion of federal monies spent on national security activities.9 These changes occurred in part because of extensive U.S. participation in World War II: the entire economy had been geared to war-related activities. The effect was a militarization of the economy that could not easily be dismantled after the war. Another change that had major rami‹cations for the development and implementation of U.S. foreign policy was the emergence of an executive branch of‹ce dedicated to intelligence gathering. The ‹ght against fascism had given birth to a bureaucracy that combined covert government activities and foreign intelligence in a single agency known as the Of‹ce of Strategic Services (OSS). The OSS was later transformed into the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), an arm of the executive branch whose function was to carry out espionage for the president. The CIA accrued enormous power in part because its creation, development, and ongoing affairs were kept outside the public view.10 Moreover, because the ethical rationale behind foreign intervention in the ‹ght against fascism went largely unquestioned, the CIA received “the same mantle of morality” that the OSS had enjoyed.11 Although the State Department had once been the principal actor in the implementation of U.S. foreign policy, after World War II the CIA became a key player as well. From the start secrecy was the modus operandi for the CIA; even its originating charter has not been made public. The National Security Act of 1947 also created another executive branch of‹ce called the National Security Council whose role was to coor- dinate foreign policy functions for the presidency. The ideological justi‹cation for these structural changes came in the form of the National Security Doctrine promulgated by Harry Truman, under which the tradi- ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 29

The Conceptual Framework 29

tional concepts of war and peace were obliterated. Constant war was considered the normal condition, and, as a result, there was always an enemy to be confronted. The emergence of the Soviet Union as one of the victors of World War II and its expansion into Eastern Europe polarized the wartime allies and rede‹ned the international power struggle. Prior to World War II the Soviet Union was viewed mostly as a peasant state, but Joseph Stalin’s rapid modernization campaign and the usurpation of vast territories after the war gave the Soviet state an economic advantage it had not had before. After World War II both the United States and the Soviet Union defended their right to maintain a presence in Europe. They also defended, just as staunchly, their respective political and economic systems, which were, of course, diametrically opposed to each other. The Soviet Union had a one- party political system in which collective rights superseded individual liberties and a centralized economy under the control of the political apparatus. The United States prided itself on its two-party democratic political system and its protection of individual rights. Free enterprise and relatively little government interference characterized its economy. These two irreconcilable perspectives led to an intense military, ideological, and political con›ict between the Soviet Union and the United States that came to be known as the cold war. As Arthur Schlesinger Jr. wrote, “The Cold War in its original form was a presumably mortal antagonism arising in the wake of the Second World War between two rigidly hostile blocs, one led by the Soviet Union and the other by the United States.”12 This ideological battle also in›uenced the organization of policymaking within government. Within the United States, foreign policy matters are dispersed. The U.S. Congress had much greater in›uence in making foreign policy prior to World War II; since then, however, foreign affairs have been concentrated primarily within the executive branch. These functions are spread among various departments, including the Departments of Defense and State, as well as the National Security Coun- cil and the CIA. The Commerce and Justice Departments (the latter of which houses Immigration and Naturalization Services) have also played a role in shaping foreign policy. The cold war further institutionalized the state’s role in the movement of people in the twentieth century. This resulted in part from a hypersensi- tivity to national security concerns that made émigrés from socialist countries potential spies, and vice versa. Yet émigrés also had symbolic value in the competition between these two antagonistic political and economic systems. For instance, the U.S. Congress authorized and funded the executive branch to set up special programs to relocate refugees from East European countries to the United States. Within socialist countries the ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 30

30 In the Land of Mirrors

control of population movement was essential for maintaining internal order. Therefore, policies regulating the movement of people had not only economic but also political functions.13 Even those immigrant ›ows perceived to be primarily economic may acquire political signi‹cance. Today, for instance, the debate in the United States about immigration from Mex- ico has acquired a political signi‹cance in the electoral arena. The Cuban revolution of 1959 restructured class and power relations on the island. Policies were instituted that greatly redistributed wealth and other societal bene‹ts. The revolution was deeply rooted in the struggle to de‹ne a nation and institute a just social program; it also had rami‹cations for U.S. hegemony in the Caribbean. The Cuban revolution had a major impact on the post–World War II standoff between the Soviet Union and the United States. The dynamics set in motion by an internal revolution were played out in the world arena. For the United States the nationalist revolution was perceived as a threat to its national security, as an island that had clearly been in the U.S. sphere was now quickly moving into the communist orbit. Soon, the Soviet Union had established a beachhead ninety miles from the U.S. coast. In Cuba the “defense of the revolution” against outside threats became a rallying point. National security was the cornerstone of the phi- losophy of the emerging government. In much the same way as with U.S. policy, internal policies in Cuba fueled the formation of the Cuban exile. Cuban of‹cials have generally dealt harshly with internal opposition; their policies at times encouraged dissidents to emigrate, while at other times they punished those who wanted to leave. Once abroad, with rare exception, exiles were cast as enemies of the revolution. The fact that people ›eeing communism acquired a positive symbolic value for the United States furthered the process of demonizing those who were leaving Cuba. This naturally affected the movement of people off the island and, consequently, the politics of émigré communities. In this context the relationship to host and home countries acquired a political signi‹cance for Cubans not normally ascribed to other immigrant communities. On the one hand, it emerged from a revolution that challenged U.S. hegemony. Thus, harboring refugees from revolutionary Cuba was of strategic value in the war against communism. Yet across the Florida Straits, leaving the island was equated with abandoning the Cuban nation, with treason. The relationship of the émigré community to the host state and home state, then, is de‹ned at least in part by the national security interests of both states. Therefore, these must be taken into consideration in analyzing the unfolding of exile politics as well as understanding the development of the community. Some scholars have ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 31

The Conceptual Framework 31

periodized Cuban immigration into various waves, taking into consideration Cuban and U.S. policies that determined the way people could leave and enter.14 Each wave has also been described according to the socioeconomic status of the immigrants and their political perspectives once in the United States. The study of Cuban community politics could be conducted through the traditional prism of ethnic groups and foreign policy, a literature that assumes the possibility of democratic participation in foreign policy decision making and asks how interest groups affect foreign policy.15 This traditional approach seeks causality in the action or preferences of individual actors or organizations and not their interaction with larger historical and structural factors. In particular, the backdrop of the cold war against which Cuban exile politics unfolds makes such an analysis inadequate. The question posed here is not how ethnic groups in›uence foreign policy but, rather, how the foreign and domestic policies of host and home countries have in›uenced the politics of émigré groups, particularly Cuban exiles. The distinction between “foreign” and “domestic” politics is curious in light of the continuous interrelationship between these forces. Nonetheless, the two terms connote different structural locations within the state apparatus. The foreign policy dimension takes into account policies aimed at other states, whereas domestic policies play out within the con‹nes of a particular nation-state. These include activities in the electoral arena. In this sense the study of the development of Cuban émigré politics is a study of the development of state structures and ideologies.16 How do state agencies interact with émigré communities, and what happens as a result? How do states construct this relationship ideologically?17 These questions must be asked of host and home country states. Hence, each chapter in this book takes into account both U.S. and Cuban policies affecting Cuban émigrés. My emphasis on structural elements does not imply that individuals or communities are mere victims of historical circumstance but, rather, that the menu of choices for political action, particularly in the foreign policy realm, is determined by a constellation of factors shaped by forces larger than individuals. The state, a key actor in foreign policy decisions, has a series of resources it can wield to in›uence the outcome of politics. This perspective does not deny that émigré groups may acquire their own interests that at times run contrary to state interests or that émigré groups can under certain circumstances act successfully on their own. Further- more, émigré groups are not monolithic but, instead, are composed of ever-changing levels of cohesion and diversity. There is a growing litera- ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 32

32 In the Land of Mirrors

ture on Latinos that explores the engagement between Latino diaspora communities and their host and homelands, particularly in the context of globalization.18

Politics and Identity

The rise of the United States as a military world power in›uenced not only the nature of state structures and the movement of people but also the notions of who was entitled to participate politically. The very idea of civil liberties that characterizes the U.S. political system did not develop a body of case law until World War I, when the Woodrow Wilson administration and the standing Congress criminalized certain forms of expression, belief, and association. Using the Espionage and Sedition Acts, over two thousand people were prosecuted, many of them immigrants from countries with which the United States was at war.19 The anti-immigrant hysteria unleashed by these campaigns cast a dubious light on the loyalty of “hyphenated” Americans—a term that acquired a pejorative meaning suggesting divided loyalty between country of origin and the United States.20 The “other” was a foreigner. This scenario was repeated during World War II, when the U.S. government again orchestrated a repressive campaign against individuals of German, Italian, and Japanese ancestry, culminating in the imprisonment of Japanese-Americans in internment camps. The message sent was that, under certain circumstances, relations with home countries could be construed as a criminal act. This perspective contributed to a notion of citizenship that placed a premium on loyalty to a single state. It is useful to note the political origins of this assimilation standard of loyal citizenship because it may help us to understand part of the tightly woven myth about the American melting pot and its epistemological corollaries. Immigration from Western Europe to the United States was at a peak at the end of the nineteenth century. While at war with Europe, patriotism and loyalty to the United States were expected. People rallied under the banner of “Americans.” Connec- tions to homeland and even outward cultural expressions such as speaking German in public were discouraged and in some cases even criminalized. Hence, the myth arose that these communities had severed ties to their homeland and were now fully American. It is not clear whether members of immigrant communities did indeed voluntarily cut their ties to the homeland or, rather, if it was simply too dif‹cult to maintain such ties or too unpopular to acknowledge them. In a study of ethnic Chicago, for example, historians of various communities noted a persistent interest in homeland issues among immigrant groups even at the turn of the century.21 (Curiously, Benito Mussolini’s Italian ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 33

The Conceptual Framework 33

government was the ‹rst to engage in a state-sponsored project to reach out to its communities abroad in hopes that they might in›uence U.S. policies toward their home country. National sentiment was present even if not displayed publicly.)22 Repression against immigrant communities contributed to the political ethos that it was desirable to become Americanized—hence, the idea of the melting pot. The notion of assimilation assumes that individuals can choose whether or not to become part of a new society regardless of how that society may view the individual and his or her group. On the valuative end integration is not only a desirable goal but a forward-looking one as well; shedding one’s ethnicity is a sign of leaving behind that which is old and replacing it with something new. This perspective found its way into the social sciences in the form of the assimilation model and the acculturation models that succeeded it. These models share many of the conceptual underpinnings of the notion of citizenship by assuming the primacy of the nation-state as the main organizing unit of society. In political science the conceptual underpinnings of the assimilation framework are found in the political socialization model that predicts the following: immigrants arriving in the host country initially refrain from politics because they are preoccupied both with home country issues and with adapting to a new country. By the second generation ties to the homeland have weakened and political involvement begins, ‹rst at the local level then moving to the national level. By the third generation the political agenda may include international concerns; at this point, however, such concerns are unrelated to one’s country of ancestry, as ties to the homeland are presumed to have been severed. This view of political participation made sense within a pluralist conception of politics as a product of individual and organizational efforts.23 In this framework individuals and communities organized to exert pressure on a political system that would provide outputs the community needed. The political socialization model is related to the classic assimilationist view of immigrant identity, which predicts that by the second generation immigrant communities lose their affective and cultural ties to the homeland and identify themselves with the new host country. In the United States, then, the second generation would be American. Against the predictions of this model, however, ethnicity prevailed. The notion of the hyphenated America, cast in a more positive light after World War II, permitted immigrants to retain some connection to their ethnic past, but with an important caveat: activities related to one’s cultural identity would be relegated to the private sphere, while within the public sphere everyone would be encouraged to become American. The concept of being an American—that is, a citizen—has carried a series of cultural and racial ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 34

34 In the Land of Mirrors

constructs from the beginning. Initially, cultural homogeneity was equated with racial purity. Over time anything that made people different—religion, for instance—was relegated to the private arena. The hyphenated explanation of cultural identity complemented the idea that an individual must be loyal to only one state. In this sense it ‹t well with liberal notions of democracy that conceive of the public arena as a place in which individuals, not groups, participate in the political process. And, although group identities, ethnicity, and gender may be used as tools to mobilize and appease the electorate, rights are de‹ned in terms of the individual. The political socialization model was based on the experience of many of the immigrant communities that came to the United States at the turn of the century, an era of extraordinary industrial growth and relatively weak governmental structures predating the emergence of machine politics, particularly at the local level. These immigrant communities thus were incorporated economically into the mainstream, which in turn facilitated their political incorporation. The political socialization model assumed that anyone who wanted to could participate in the process. It did not take into account the fact that in many host countries immigrants are neither welcomed nor allowed to assimilate. In addition, émigrés from countries with a neocolonial relationship to the United States, marked by U.S. domination both politically and economically, have a different relationship to the United States as host country than do émigrés from European nations. This is not to say that European immigrants did not face discrimination once in the United States, but the situation is different for immigrants from Mexico, the Caribbean, and Central America, all of which have had a neocolonial relationship with the United States. The relationship of dominance has been accompanied by a view about the inhabitants of these regions that has included a process of considering their inhabitants nonwhite—a negative categorization in the dominant culture.24 This view has been extended to immigrants as well, so that individuals of Latin American origin are often considered “brown.” The political socialization model, which assumed that integration was possible, did not deal with institutional racism. Therefore, when communities were unsuccessful in achieving formal political incorporation, social scientists asked what was wrong with the immigrant groups in question. Interestingly, the answer was usually that the communities resisted assimilation. Ties to an outmoded form of ethnicity was said to be the reason why Latinos did not vote. As the sociologist Felix Padilla has noted, “We have always been thought of as another ‘minority group’ that will in time become part of the ‘melting pot’ in much the same way European ethnics ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 35

The Conceptual Framework 35

did years before . . . Hispanic people will make it into the mainstream of the larger society when they agree to assimilation like other ethnic groups.”25 While social science inquiry has become more attuned to the sub- tleties of immigrant communities, there seems in the late 1990s to be a resurgence of the assimilationist model. This is partly a response to increased immigration to the United States in the late 1980s at a time of economic restructuring and renewed concern about the erosion of the American character. This concern echoed cries in academia by conservatives who argued that, as more minorities entered higher education and demanded a diversi‹cation of course offerings, the traditional Western European canon of knowledge was eroding.26 This debate has emerged principally as a response to the multicultural movement that sought to make public spaces more inclusive.27 In immigrant and minority communities the multicultural movement was often spurred by intellectuals responding to a public discourse, particularly as articulated in higher education curricula that excluded works and topics relevant to these communities.28 Multiculturalism was also evident as issues of identity became central in the arts. Artists, writers, and musicians played critical roles in generating new ways of viewing, hearing, and sensing a community displaced from both home and host countries.29 Yet critics maintained that in order for democracy to be sustained all members of American society need to share a common cultural base.30 In regard to Cuban exiles two celebrated studies have revived the assimilation model. Gustavo Pérez-Firmat’s Life on the Hyphen: The Cuban-American Way explores what he calls the zone of the one-and-a- halvers, those born in Cuba and raised in the United States.31 In Pérez- Firmat’s view the hyphenated phenomenon is temporary, as the children of his generation will become more fully American. David Reiff reaches the same conclusions in The Exile: Cuba in the Heart of Miami, as he follows a couple born in Cuba as they return to the island and try to make sense of their split identity.32 Reiff predicts that their son, twelve years old at the time, is the one who will become American. Reiff’s overarching message to the parents is: “Why don’t you become American?” Curiously, scholars on the island also bewildered by the persistence of nationalism and interest in home country issues among exile communities have used a variant of the assimilation model to study the Cuban community in the United States.33 These models embody the assumption that identity is tied to a single nation-state and that each nation-state has a certain culture from which people either move away from if they are emigrating or move toward if they are arriving. It further assumes a fixed identity in both locations that ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 36

36 In the Land of Mirrors

does not change over time. Both home and host country are seen as mutu- ally exclusive of each other and composed of “pure,” or authentic, culture. And, in the case of Cuba’s of‹cial vision, cultural identity is also a matter of “social conscience and concrete behavior toward the nation.”34 There- fore, it has both a cultural and an ideological presupposition.

Cuban Exiles and Latino Studies: Similarities and Differences

The Cuban community has evolved within a context de‹ned by U.S.-Latin American relations. In part this is a study of how U.S. foreign policy inter- sects domestic reality and shapes the elements that go into making a community. While the relationship between foreign and domestic policies may be clearer in the case of Cubans than for other diaspora communities, it is nonetheless fruitful to understand it within the larger framework of U.S.- Latin American relations. While other Latino communities may not have the obvious ties that the Cuban community has to foreign policy projects, the origins of the Mexican and Puerto Rican communities in the United States can be traced to the expansion of the United States in the nineteenth century. In the twentieth century U.S. policies in Central and South America have also resulted in population displacement. For instance, after the U.S.-sponsored military coup in Chile in 1972 a large number of Chileans ›ed to the United States, as did many Central American refugees after the covert U.S. role in regional civil wars in the 1980s. In this sense U.S. foreign policy has played a part in the formation of these immigrant communities. Furthermore, the immigrations have been framed by economic and political factors in home and host countries that are related to the position of these countries in the world system, particularly their relationship to the United States.35 Economic and political situations—for instance, the collapse of Haiti in the late 1970s—have contributed to immigration ›ows and to the subsequent formation of communities in the United States. This phenomenon extends to other regions,36 but the particular historical relationship of the United States to parts of the Spanish postcolonial world in Central America and the Caribbean contributes to the commonalities that exist among immigrants from this region. Like Cubans, other Latino communities have also had very ambivalent relationships with their homelands. Mexicans who have gone to el norte, the north, often have been portrayed as pochos (wetbacks).37 In Puerto Rico supporters of both statehood and of independence have cam- paigned actively to keep Puerto Ricans in the United States from voting on referenda on the future political status of the island. And, of course, the ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 37

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Cuban government has portrayed those who have left the island as gusanos (worms), escoria (scum), and most recently anti-Cubanos.38 Once in the United States all these communities have faced varying degrees of exclusion and racism. Even Cubans, labeled the “Golden Exiles” because of the disproportionate percentage of professionals in the earlier waves of immigrants, faced overt discrimination. Latino communities thus share the dual dilemma of rejection by their homeland and discrimination in their host country. Nonetheless, there are important differences among Latino communities.39 While I consider the Cuban experience, like those of other Latino communities, to be one of diaspora, to understand the politics and identity of Cuban exiles requires a close examination of the notion of exile itself, since it plays such a powerful role in the community’s organization of politics and identity. The idea of exile is the thread that holds together the political memory of the community. Exile itself is an ancient affair. Banishment has been used as punishment by many societies throughout history. It is not even an exclusively human process. Many animal kingdoms also use banishment, particularly to discard their ill and elderly, although in some species contenders for the dominant male position are also expelled upon losing their bids for power.40 For humans exile is a forced separation from the homeland, a punishment that carries with it the inability to return.41 Yet what constitutes a “forced” separation is open to debate; the de‹nition may range from actual physical expulsion to the inability of displaced persons to ‹nd work or housing in their homeland. Generally, however, the fear of persecution is a component of the de‹nition of exile or the status of political refugee. And the impossibility of return is a critical element of the condition of exile. The dislocation of exile consists of physical separation from the homeland, destierro, which in turn produces a personal dislocation, or destiempo.42 The physical separation is literally a geographic relocation to a place with a different culture and often a new language. The personal dislocation includes the loss of social and personal structures that vary in signi‹cance according to the individual’s life cycle at the time of exile. Both destierro and destiempo include the loss of memory of a place. Memory becomes a central force in creating a diasporic identity.43 The inability to reproduce the past or to return to a prior status compels the re-creation of memory of what was left behind. Myths about the past and the future play a powerful role. Memory, remembering, and re-creating become individual and collective rituals, as does forgetting. In this sense the formation of an exile community is a process similar to that of nation building, one in which collective symbols form a constellation of ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 38

38 In the Land of Mirrors

reference points that endow upon disparate fragments a sense of con- gruity.44 For communities of exiles, however, this emerging collective identity occurs despite, not because of, geography. Exiles are outsiders in both their home and host countries. Yet they are not totally disconnected from either. The dif‹culty for many is not “simply being forced to live away from home, but rather, given today’s world, in living with the many reminders that you are in exile . . . the normal traf‹c of everyday contemporary life keeps you in constant but tanta- lizing and unful‹lled touch with the old place.”45 Meanwhile, the exile engages with the new home. But being in exile in a host country that is antagonistic to immigrants further institutionalizes a sense of isolation. Being a stranger, an outsider, creates barriers that reinforce the need to hold together the community. Removed from the familiar and now living in a hostile environment, the exiles become strangers to themselves.46 Desiring the past, and recreating that past culturally and politically, is a form of nostalgia. Nostalgia may be a common phenomenon, but for exiles this desire for the past is located in the memory of another geographic space: the homeland that embodies the past, childhood, sensual- ity. The nostalgia prevalent in the exile community and woven into its politics and identity re›ects the impossibility of return. As opposed to yearning, or the desire for something that may be attainable, nostalgia is a desire that can never be realized. Nostalgia contributes to the creation of a collective sense of identity and helps ease the pain of loss. By recreating a mythical past, exiles can feel that they have not completely left their place of origin. In addition, exiles hope that holding onto the past may facilitate a return to it. Nostalgia becomes a way to challenge efforts by the home country to erase the exile community from its history, as well as a means for coping with the host country’s ambivalent acceptance of the group. The political circumstances that complicate a physical return disguise the reality that any return to the past or to childhood is impossible. There- fore, the ongoing personal negotiation between wanting to return to the past and accepting the need to go on with one’s life—a natural part of all human growth—is cast as a political issue. The personal thus becomes almost exclusively political. While exile is most readily felt by those who leave their homeland, it also has an impact on those who stay. Massive emigration changes the landscape. It produces a loss. In a strange sort of way an exile community may in fact reinforce the borders of a nation-state. Exile entails the leaving of a country. An exile community abroad is a constant reminder that the borders still exist. There are few studies of the politics of exiles.47 In perhaps the most ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 39

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extensive one Yossi Shain studied exile political organizations in order to understand the dynamics of opposition politics.48 In the era of nation- states governments relied heavily on nationalism as a means to claim legitimacy. Exile organizations trying to topple a government from abroad have been at a disadvantage in asserting political legitimacy. In addition, the spatial and temporal separation disconnects exile organizations from the quotidian realities of their homeland. Of course, the role of exile organizations in homeland politics may change in the future, as communication and economic ties between exiles and homeland increase. Moreover, in some cases, such as Cuba, the conditions of exile have lasted almost four decades. Each new wave of exiles has brought an updated vision of the island. As a result, the exile community’s vision of homeland has been replenished continually and thus is more closely aligned with the island’s reality. Yet the role of nationalism in both the building of new regimes and in the laying of claim to legitimacy is useful in understanding the Cuban experience. For Cubans the mythology of exile and nation from afar is rooted in its own history. Since the days of Spanish colonialism exile has been used to discard challengers to the Crown. Originally, it was Spain that cast people from the “motherland.” In 1492 the Moors and Jews were expelled, and later the Jesuits were exiled from the Iberian Peninsula. During the colonial period Spain expelled supporters of independence movements from their colonies to Spain or to other colonial holdings. Sympathizers of Cuban independence often would decide to leave the island even before they were deported. Consequently, the Cuban independence movement was conceptualized and organized in the United States. The movement of people off the island created a locus of cultural and political production in foreign lands. Feelings of nostalgia and desire are found in the works of José María Heredia as well as the poems of Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda and José Martí, each writing of homeland from abroad.49 The Cuban nation was conceived from afar. Throughout the twentieth century Cuban emigration continued, particularly to the United States, as waves of both economic and political refugees sought a haven. While the broader movement of people from Cuba to the United States was related to the ups and downs of the cigar and sugar industries, there were also distinct political moments that created political exiles. Economic and political changes on the island contributed to a continuous ›ow of Cuban immigrants and political exiles to the United States. They also continued to in›uence the unfolding of events in the Cuban émigré community, which also grew over time. Throughout the 1930s Cuban political émigrés sought refuge in the United States from the Gerardo Machado dictatorship. Together with ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 40

40 In the Land of Mirrors

progressive North Americans and other political émigrés, these exiles published an opposition newspaper in New York that they smuggled into Cuba.50 Later, in the 1950s, while temporarily out of power, Fulgencio Batista made his base in the United States. Upon his return to power his repressive regime again forced many Cubans to the United States, including Carlos Prío Socarrás, former president of Cuba. With support from Cubans living across the United States, Batista’s opponents formed committees sympathetic to the 26th of July Revolution Movement headed by Fidel Castro, who traveled through the United States raising money and support from exiles.51 Exile politics were again important to the future of Cuba. Not surprisingly, Cuban-in›uenced culture also ›ourished in the exile communities of the 1950s, giving rise to Cuban jazz, the mambo craze, and the “I Love Lucy” show.52 In the later part of the twentieth century, as exile came to be de‹ned along the ideological fault line between communism and capitalism, the decision to remain or to leave one’s homeland became even more politicized. Socialist countries set up tight restrictions on entering and leaving national territories, and political dissidents were often pushed out and forbidden to return. In turn the anticommunist West received these political refugees as heroes. The condition of exile became an ideological centerpiece of the cold war. Although the immigrant/exile duality had already been forged by the politics of Cubans in the United States since the 1800s,53 this historical dynamic now came to be de‹ned by the sharply divided world politics of the 1950s. For Cubans who left after the 1959 revolution the exile experience was inextricably woven into historical and contemporary events. The number of Cubans living in the United States today amounts to 10 percent of Cuba’s population, with major concentrations in Florida,

TABLE 1. Total Number of Cubans Residing in the United States, 1850–1990 Year Number Year Number Year Number 1850 5,772 1900 11,081 1950 29,295 1860 7,353 1910 15,133 1960 79,150 1870 5,319 1920 14,872 1970 544,600 1880 6,917 1930 18,493 1980 803,226 1890 9,970 1940 15,277 1990 1,043,932 Source: U.S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of the Census, Historical Statistics of the United States: Colonial Times to 1970, 1975, 1980 and 1990 Census of Population: Supple- mentary Report, Persons of Spanish Origin by State. PC80-S1-7. Note: Total for the year 1890 was extrapolated from the combined figures for Cuba and the West Indies. ch1.qxd 10/11/1999 9:58 AM Page 41

The Conceptual Framework 41

New York, Illinois, and California.54 Reproduction and new exiles continue to expand these communities, adding increasingly complex layers to their social and political character. As a result, the Cuban community reality is often transitional and paradoxical and does not ‹t easily into the traditional models through which we study émigré politics and identity. One of my goals in this book is to explore how immigrants construct their political, cultural, and personal identities in ways that go beyond what is of‹cially legalized or permitted while understanding how these structures in›uence the options available to these communities. This question has resonance beyond the case studied here. The problematic of immigrants is not unique to the United States and Latin America; it is a vital issue for sending and receiving countries around the world. ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 42

CHAPTER 2 El Exilio: National Security Interests and the Origins of the Cuban Exile Enclave

Prior to the revolutionaries’ triumph in 1959, an estimated 124,000 Cubans had emigrated to the United States. Throughout the 1950s economic and political conditions on the island had spurred an exodus. A common practice among U.S. corporations was to recruit trained person- nel straight from Cuban universities. Nor was it out of the ordinary for political refugees to enter the United States illegally. Yet, as much as postrevolutionary emigration represented a continuation of these trends, this exodus and the exile community, El Exilio, it created emerged from a unique set of circumstances.1 The origins of the postrevolution exile must ‹rst be understood in the context of the revolution itself and the dynamics it introduced on the island and abroad. Second, an analysis of the exodus and the subsequent communities it spawned must survey the international involvement of the United States as well as its domestic environment in the early 1960s. Finally, the exile community emerges from a society at war with itself, a war that had been carried out through battle with a foreign state. The community contributes to the shaping of its own politics and identity, which in turn in›uences the subsequent ›ow of émigrés, just as these successors leave their imprint on the politics and identity of the exile community. Studies of Cuba and the Cuban community have been marked by some of the same ideological fault lines created by the cold war.2 Although many factors have in›uenced the development of the community, studies of Cuban exile politics and identity have usually emphasized only one of many factors. In the early 1960s, with rare exception,3 studies of the exile community had an island-based perspective. In studying the reasons why people left, scholars who had recently left Cuba explained that repressive conditions had spurred the massive exodus.4 These analyses usually omitted U.S. policies as factors contributing to the exodus. In the 1970s, Cuban exile academics who were trained in the United States shifted the point of reference to the United States. These studies looked at

42 ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 43

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the community as a minority group and emphasized the role that émigrés ful‹lled for the U.S. state.5 Unlike other Latinos, Cubans were seen as a privileged minority who had been afforded special immigration status because of their symbolic value in the cold war. Other studies looked at U.S. immigration policies as a determining factor in the development of the exile community.6 In the early 1980s, island-based academics linked to intelligence-gathering policy centers began to study the community that until then had been of‹cially censured as an area of inquiry. Indeed, those studying the Cuban exile community were monitored closely. Internationally renowned sociologist Oscar Lewis was expelled from Cuba when, as part of his study of a Cuban family on the island, he interviewed family members who had emigrated to Miami. Of‹cially sanctioned Cuban academics emphasized the part the United States played in fomenting immigration, claiming that the U.S. role had been an effort to sabotage the revolution while ignoring Cuban policies as well as the role of the community.7 While all these factors have contributed to the emergence and development of the Cuban exile community, our understanding of this community, particularly its origins, has been fragmented by the same ideological divide that so de‹nitively demarcated people’s political loyalties; it was either Cuba’s fault or that of the United States. In this chapter I attempt a more comprehensive understanding of this period, beginning with an examination of the moment of rupture, taking into account the links between the opposition to Batista and Castro. I continue by looking at the role of the United States in facilitating and de‹ning the movement and development of communities in the United States. I conclude by looking at the politics and identity of Cubans in the United States in the early years. Throughout this chapter I try to understand the unfolding of events within a context I assume has multiple players and states. This is a dif‹cult task. The fault line of the cold war is not just a theoretical proposition for people whose lives were ruptured by these historical events. For those of us who were young at the time of exile the memory of these early years is intricately interwoven with our childhood. The sharp contrast between our island existence and our U.S. existence has burned powerful images into our memories. The Cuban revolution stands as a monumental event in our lives, making it dif‹cult to decipher the powerful myths it engendered. Many of our families were ardent supporters of the revolution, as was the vast majority of el pueblo cubano. U.S. government of‹cials reacted in ways that facilitated the concentration of power on the island under the leadership of one man. This new leadership proved inca- pable of sustaining a governing structure that included the diverse groups that had supported the revolution. One of the consequences of this failure ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 44

MASCULINIDAD Y NACIÓN

LA HABANA, 1994 ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 45

MASCULINITY AND NATION

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46 In the Land of Mirrors

was the mass exodus of almost 300,000 Cubans in the two years following the revolution.

Revolution and Its Opposition

During the 1950s Cubans of all social classes organized into several coalitions demanding political change. Politicians willing to support change through an electoral process clustered around two parties, Los Auténticos and Los Ortodoxos. But this strategy lost its viability after Fulgencio Batista, a mulatto army sergeant, led a military coup in 1952 against Pres- ident Carlos Prío Socarrás with the support of the United States.8 On July 26, 1953, armed men attacked military barracks in Santiago de Cuba, signaling the commencement of an armed struggle against the island’s military regime. This act represented frustration over the inability to achieve political change through peaceful means.9 The revolutionary movement was composed of many organizations and sectors. It included a faction of the Auténticos that had gone underground after President Prío Socarrás had been deposed. El Directorio Revolucionario, composed mainly of university students heavily in›uenced by progressive Catholic thought, organized in Havana and advocated a strategy of golpear arriba (strike at the top). Their most dramatic act was a failed attempt to take over the presidential palace on March 13, 1957.10 Fidel Castro’s Movimiento 26 de Julio (M-26–7), named after the date of the assault on the Moncada military barracks, amalgamated an array of sectors that had settled on a strategy of guerrilla warfare in the countryside. The Partido Socialista Popular, Cuba’s Com- munist Party, condemned the actions of both El Directorio and the M- 26–7. Seven anti-Batista organizations signed a unity pact in November 1957 forming a Cuban Liberation Council. Within a month Fidel had resigned from the council, claiming that it had not been suf‹ciently opposed to foreign intervention; years later he admitted that he did not believe that his group could control that many organizations.11 Diverse ideologies, future visions, and strategies were included in this broad coalition, but all were united in their commitment to restore the Constitution of 1940 and to hold elections. The organizations opposed to Batista included:12

Los Auténticos: Ramón Grau San Martin, Carlos Prío Socarrás (elected president in 1948 and 1952), removed by Batista military coup; initially advocated peaceful change but later ‹nanced various underground armed movements. ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 47

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Partido del Pueblo Cubano Ortodoxo (Los Ortodoxos): Offshoot of Los Ortodoxos, founded in 1947 by Eduardo Chíbas, congressman and later senator, who shot himself during his radio program in 1951. Movimento Nacional Revolucionario: Offshoot of Los Ortodoxos, headed by Rafael García Barcena, professor at the University of Havana and La Escuela Superior de Guerra; advocated armed coup led by military of‹cers. Movimiento 26 de Julio (M-26-7): Headed by Fidel Castro, formally of Los Ortodoxos; armed movement focused on rural and moun- tain actions, named after its failed attempted takeover of a military barracks on July 26, 1953. Directorio Revolucionario: Founded in 1955 by members of the Fed- eración de Estudiantes Universitarios (sole governing body of university students); headed by Antonio Echeverria; focused on urban armed actions, speci‹cally at “hitting the top”; entered into a coalition with M-26-7 in 1956. Most of its leaders were killed in an attack on the presidential palace on March 13, 1957. Cuban Liberation Council: Formed on November 1, 1957; included, among others, M-26-7, Directorio, and Auténticos; Fidel Castro pulled out a month later. Segundo Frente del Escambray: Offshoot of El Directorio, headed by Eloy Gutiérrez Menoyo (other members of El Directorio joined M- 26-7). Legion Acción Revolucionaria: Small group headed by Manuel Artime. Civic Resistance Movement: Civic group allied with M-26-7. Agrupación Católica: Headed by Juan Manuel Salvat and other Catholic students.

Despite the broad popular support enjoyed by these organizations, all met with brutal repression, resulting in an estimated twenty thousand deaths, according to New York Times correspondent R. Hart Phillips.13 For Cubans of all walks of life the struggle was to regain the nation and the dignity they had lost at the hands of the military dictatorship. On Jan- uary 1, 1959, Fidel Castro declared victory after a protracted guerrilla struggle in the mountains and began a march across the island that ended in Havana a week later. This marked the end of the movement that resulted in the ousting of Batista. Disregarding the decisive participation of many organizations and sectors in the struggle against Batista, Castro quickly consolidated power under his command and his organization, the 26th of July Movement.14 At ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 48

48 In the Land of Mirrors

‹rst this was done by eliminating Batista supporters and bringing in representatives of the various sectors that had supported the revolution. A fairly representative cabinet was put in place in the early part of 1959, but before long it became evident that Castro would not tolerate differences in his government and an intense power struggle began. Frequent political purges characterized the new regime’s administrative style. To the chagrin of many who had fought against Batista, Fidel began promoting members of the Partido Socialista Popular, the Cuban Communist Party, which had not supported the revolution and had advocated accommodation with Cuba’s dictators since the 1930s. Rapid and often unexpected political changes added to the daily tur- moil.15 Legal changes had the effect of concentrating power in the executive. A law passed by the cabinet in February vested legislative power in the cabinet.16 Formal political institutions were bypassed as Castro over- turned court decisions, often announcing his dictates on national television. In one renowned case a court in Santiago acquitted forty-four of Batista’s airmen, only to have the case dismissed and a new trial ordered by Fidel.17 Another major point of contention were elections that had been promised during the revolution but were never held. In addition, the revolution caused a restructuring of power and class relations that led to a redistribution of land and resources. Once in power the government became increasingly radical. Initial reforms aimed at nationalizing large landholdings were extended to landowners with only moderate holdings. The Instituto de Reforma Agraria (Agrarian Reform Institute) became one of the institutional mechanisms through which Fidel and los rebeldes (the rebels) consolidated their power. Economic changes, such as the urban reform that included limits on the numbers of housing units that could be rented, also contributed to unrest. Opposition to the new government grew. Fissures were evident in many sectors, and there were high-level defections. When Huber Matos, a former commander of the 26th of July Movement, tried to resign from his post with the Instituto de Reforma Agraria, he was arrested for counterrevolutionary activities and sentenced to twenty years in jail. Manuel Artime, who had been part of Agrupación Católica and later headed an armed group against Batista—and who would later play a leadership role in both the political and armed opposition to Fidel—resigned from the Agrarian Reform Institute and left the country before he could be arrested. Pedro Díaz Lanz defected from the air force, and many liberals started to resign from government, including Manuel Urrutia, who had been named provisional president; José Miró Cardona, prime minister; Elena Mederos, minister of social welfare; and later Manuel Ray, minister of public works. ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 49

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Many of the organizations and sectors that had supported the revolutionary movement opposed the direction taken by Fidel Castro and his supporters. They resented his new alliance with the communists, whom they considered opportunists. They fought back by going underground and again taking up the arms they had used against Batista. The Auténti- cos regrouped under an organization named Rescate Revolucionario headed by Manual Antonio (Tony) de Varona and Ramón and Polita Grau. Agrupación Católica began publishing a newspaper titled Trinchera. Its members were closely allied with El Directorio Estudiantil headed by Juan Manuel Salvat and Alberto Müller. Manuel Artime went on to head El Movimiento de Recuperacíon Revolucionaria. All had varying degrees of contact with the United States. By the middle of 1960 the various political and military organizations that had emerged following Castro’s rise to power announced the formation of a coalition in Mexico City called the Frente Democratico Revolu- cionario. By then these groups were receiving help from the CIA in response to U.S. concerns about communist participation in the government but also for a series of other reasons that had little to do with Cuba. Under the auspices of the CIA the underground was organized under the banner of Unidad Revolucionaria.18

Repression and Exodus

For many who had supported the revolutionary movement it was the repressiveness of the new government that made them feel betrayed. Arrests, trials, and ‹ring squads ‹rst used against Batista’s former hench- men were now turned against anyone who was critical of Fidel. Arrests increased and revolutionary justice was quickly dispensed. The day before the Bay of Pigs invasion the Cuban government made a massive series of arrests. Many adolescent boys were detained in collective jails for days. Detention and incarceration of political opponents became common practice.19 Prisoners were summarily executed by ‹ring squads. In a particularly dramatic case two young students, Virgilio Cam- paneria and Alberto Tapia Ruana, were executed on April 17, 1961.20 Their execution drove a deep wedge into the broad support previously enjoyed by the revolution; the reason many people had joined the movement against Batista was because they rejected the arbitrary and repressive methods of his regime. There was generalized uncertainty about what would happen next. Most people thought that the U.S. government would not sit by and let the situation continue. Rumors of invasion had begun to be heard as early as 1960, and many Cubans wanted to be outside the country when it hap- ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 50

50 In the Land of Mirrors

pened. Cubans had begun leaving the island early in 1959. Most of these departures were undertaken without much fanfare. According to an analysis of the situation in Santiago de Cuba written by a consulate of‹cial, the demand for visas was increasing for a variety of reasons:

Some wish to get away from the possibility of another revolution, others . . . “in case.” Others think that the government is going to place further restrictions on travel, despite of‹cial denials. Still others are leaving because of the economic squeeze as a result of revolutionary laws . . . Some persons are going to considerable length to make trips appear casual, e.g., splitting up families or going by different routes to the U.S. or other countries. This, and leaving without pub- licity, are attempted because they do not want to attract attention which they think might bring intervention or con‹scation of their properties.21

The exodus accelerated in response to one government action in particular. The government announced that all private schools would be closed, setting off panic among the middle class. This added fuel to rumors that the government was going to take over the patria potestad (legal authority) over children. The Catholic Church was particularly vehement in defending its right to provide private education. Priests in Cuba who had lived through the Spanish Civil War and witnessed the separation of families and children voiced their fears that the same would occur in Cuba. For parents whose children attended Catholic schools, this was a sure sign that they would lose power over what happened to their children. Simulta- neously, the government initiated a literacy campaign to send all those who could read to the countryside to teach peasants how to read and write, further separating families and dispersing educated people. The rush to get out of Cuba grew. This is when many parents, including my own, decided to send their children—fourteen thousand of them—to the United States.

To Stay or Leave? Patriot or Traitor?

The issue of leaving or remaining in Cuba provided the new government with a political rallying point it could use to mobilize support for the revolution.22 Leaving or staying, as well as one’s position toward those who left, became a litmus test for loyalty to the revolution. For instance, when a great number of professionals began leaving and the loss started to have a noticeable impact on Cuba’s economy, a political campaign was launched to link the act of remaining on the island with patriotism. Dur- ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 51

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ing a rally at the University of Havana, Cuban president Osvaldo Dorticós asked those present to stand and take an oath that they would stay and give their services to the nation.23 Those present complied. But pledging one’s loyalty was not enough: revolutionary cadres were discouraged from staying in contact with relatives who had left the island. Party militants were explicitly prohibited from writing to relatives. In fact, writing to relatives was one of the criteria used to deny students entrance into the university. In 1960 Raul Castro, Fidel Castro’s younger brother and head of the Cuban Armed Forces, presented outgoing migration as “the normal exodus that takes place when the people take the power in their own hands and liquidate exploitation and the privileged classes. Their departure does not damage the revolution, but forti‹es it as it is a spontaneous puri‹cation.”24 Others had a much harsher view of the exiles. In the early days of the revolution Fidel Castro said, “Those who escape their duty, taking the road to the north, have lost the right to be worthy sons of la patria.”25 From the beginning the Cuban revolution considered leaving the island a treasonous act; the punishment was to strip the person who left of his or her national identity. People who left were called gusanos (worms), a reference to the duffel bags they carried with them. Dissent was interpreted by Cuba’s leadership as a threat to the nation’s security. The closing of political space for peaceful or legal dissent meant that those on the island had few options for registering disagree- ment other than risk imprisonment or leave the country. For many leaving became a way of dissenting. Leaving thus acquired a symbolic value as a political act of de‹ance, which, in turn, reinforced the idea that those who left were enemies of the state. Furthermore, most Cubans who emigrated went to the United State—a host country that historically had been antagonistic to the homeland. Indeed, the participants in the 1961 U.S.-backed invasion of the island were Cuban émigrés. Thus, the concept of exile and enemy of the state were fused. For a nationalist revolution the unrelenting exodus of people was indicative of profound systemic political and ideological problems. The revolution, which had been won precisely through the support of broad sectors of the nation, failed to remain inclusive when it came time to govern. Moreover, massive outgoing migration represented a tremendous loss of human resources. Externalizing dissent also had a high cost in that it led to a process of denationalization—the opposite of the goal of a nationalist revolution. In essence the exodus represented a crisis of legitimacy. The painful rupture that accompanied leaving the country was extremely dif‹cult to reconcile with the immediate past experience of many ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 52

52 In the Land of Mirrors

Cubans, who had been accustomed to being able to take a ferry from Cuba to Florida, honeymoon in Miami, and maintain a close relationship with friends and relations in the United States. Suddenly a trip that had been an easy weekend holiday had become a bureaucratic and political nightmare. Eventually, the reaction of Cuba’s leaders toward those who left was institutionalized in a series of policies that were enforced by government structures whose function was to guard the security of the nation. As early as 1961, a law was passed that authorized the Ministry of the Interior to grant exit and reentry permits to those wishing to leave the country. If a person had not returned by the date on the reentry permit, his or her leave was considered a “de‹nitive abandonment” of the country and the state had the right to con‹scate all of his or her property.26 A law had been passed in 1959 calling for the con‹scation of properties of those involved in counterrevolutionary activities, but the law of de‹nitive abandonment included any person who overstayed the sixty-day limit.27 Those who left the island were not allowed to return, even to visit. These policies marked a radical break with legal precedent, as Cuban law had guaranteed free travel to and from the island for all citizens. The use of exit and reentry permits and loss of property rights were justi‹ed by the government on the grounds of national security.28 The effect was that those who left became classic exiles: nonpersons in their own country. While the Cuban practice of exile has roots in its colonial past (Spain, too, had used it as a form of punishment), it contradicted contemporary immigration law that had been put into effect by a U.S. military governor in 1901. This law—an exact copy of U.S. immigration law at the time— does not recognize dual citizenship. Everyone born in Cuba or descended from a parent born in Cuba is de‹ned as Cuban regardless of where they live. When traveling to Cuba, they must do so on a Cuban passport. Every Cuban constitution of this century also has stipulated, however, that anyone who acquires the citizenship of another country loses his or her Cuban citizenship. The law leaves room for regulations that de‹ne exactly how this is to occur. These regulations require that each case be processed indi- vidually; in other words, automatic stripping of citizenship is not allowed. In effect, there is a contradiction between law and practice, for a Cuban passport is required of any Cuban even if he or she has obtained citizenship in another country. Many of us in the Cuban diaspora now have two passports. But, while we may have Cuban passports, because of the postrevolutionary law of de‹nitive abandonment, we have no property or social rights in Cuba. Another major contradiction has tugged at Cuba’s policy toward dissidents and émigrés. While the revolutionary government has maintained publicly that the construction of socialism is “una tarea de hombres libres” ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 53

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(a task of free men), it simultaneously set up legal mechanisms to punish those who left without authorization. In fact, departures not authorized by the government were considered political crimes. Leaving legally, even when the United States allowed massive immigration, has been very dif‹cult. Once Cuban citizens ‹led the required papers at the Ministry of the Interior declaring their intent to leave the country, they generally lost their jobs, their property was inventoried, and their children were expelled from special educational programs. Because of the politicization of emigration, Cuban émigrés have ful‹lled several functions for the Cuban state. They have provided the government with ideological ammunition with which to rally their forces. For example, lea›ets showing “lazy gusanos” were used to mobilize workers to cut sugar cane. Emigration also became the vehicle through which the government could rid itself of political opponents and consolidate power. If dissenters were externalized, competition for power would be reduced. State structures were created and often expanded to implement these governmental goals. Massive emigration exacted a high toll on the state. It was living proof that the Cuban government could not effectively incorporate all parts of the nation. In addition, the sporadic and abrupt ways in which Cubans have left the country presented a security threat because these departures could ignite a rebellion against the government. Once abroad, the ever-present threat of the counterrevolution from el exilio helped rationalize the need for strong national security agencies within Cuba charged with protecting the revolution. The con›ict between the United States and Cuba required an expansion of Cuba’s governmental capabilities to meet an external threat—an expansion that mirrored the post–World War II growth in the U.S. intelligence apparatus.29 The expansion of the Cuban national security apparatus has been especially pronounced for those agencies dealing with Cubans who leave the island. Among the most important of these is the Ministry of the Interior, which encompassed both immigration services and the nation’s internal and external intelligence agencies. Rapid growth has also been the case for of‹ces within other departments, such as the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Cuban Communist Party, and the Instituto de Amistad Con los Pueb- los (the Institute of Friendship with Other Countries),30 an organization that supports solidarity with revolutionary movements throughout the world. The violent postrevolutionary social rupture within Cuban society and the reaction of the United States to these events have found expression in Cuba’s domestic and foreign policies. These policies have been conceived and developed in the realm of national security. In terms of foreign ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 54

54 In the Land of Mirrors

policy the overriding concerns are defense of territory and maintenance of sovereignty. In terms of the domestic agenda the preoccupation has been with economic and political stability.31

U.S. National Security Interests and Cuban Exiles

During the ‹rst years following the Cuban revolution U.S. policymakers operated with the unquestioned assumption that the leadership that had assumed power on the island would not last. The initial transfer of Cubans to the United States was not a mass movement of refugees but, rather, a response to military needs. U.S. government agencies involved in the ‹ght against the Castro government needed ways to evacuate agents working for the underground opposition and their families. The story of how these programs evolved to become unprecedented immigration and relocation programs traverses the Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Johnson administrations; a contentious Congress; and a local and national backlash to unbridled immigration from the island to the United States. Furthermore, these years were marked by the failed invasion of the island and events that led to the brink of a nuclear war. Throughout the period Cuban exiles came to ful‹ll symbolic and political roles for the U.S. government as well as for the Cuban government—roles that in strange ways mirrored each other. U.S. involvement in Cuban affairs was nothing new, and neither was the presence of Cubans in the United States. During the revolution the of‹cial U.S. representative in Havana, Earl Smith, had opted against supporting the popular will, choosing instead to try to help Batista until it became evident that his days were numbered.32 After Batista was toppled, the Eisenhower administration reacted with hostility to the modest agrarian and urban reforms sponsored by the new Cuban revolutionary leadership.33 Unlike interventions prior to World War II, however, U.S. reactions to the Cuban revolution were cast through the lens of the cold war and became intermeshed with the new crusade to stop communism from spreading in the Western hemisphere.34 Unquestionably, the Cuban revolution challenged U.S. hegemony in the Caribbean. It called for a reordering of political power to protect Cuban national interests rather than U.S. interests. It also called for exporting the revolution to other countries in Latin America. In the McCarthyite mood of the late 1950s, in which anticommunist hysteria permeated American public opinion, it was easy to see a revolutionary movement on an island ninety miles offshore as a test of wills between the United States and the Soviet Union. The immediate U.S. response was to attempt to remove the revolutionary leadership from power using military, political, and economic means. ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 55

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But, unlike past incursions into Cuban affairs, a new mode of intervention was implemented—a foreign state-sponsored social movement.35 Cuban émigrés became the conduit through which U.S. foreign policies were implemented. Used to try to overthrow and discredit the Cuban revolution,36 these émigrés came to ful‹ll the military, propagandistic, and symbolic needs of the United States. The resulting relationship between the émigrés and their host country was forged within the evolving national security state.

Exiles: A Cover for U.S. Intervention

As early as spring 1959, during a National Security Council meeting, Vice President Richard Nixon proposed arming and otherwise supporting an exile force for direct military intervention against Fidel Castro.37 He also succeeded in getting CIA and FBI approval of his recommendation.38 On March 17, 1960, President Dwight Eisenhower approved a CIA policy paper that outlined the steps to be taken to “bring about the replacement of the Castro regime with one more devoted to the true interests of the Cuban people and more acceptable to the U.S. in such a manner as to avoid any appearance of U.S. intervention.”39 The document recommended a series of steps that could be taken, including the formation of an “exile” opposition whose slogan could be to “Restore the Revolution,” which, it was to claim, had been lost to a “new dictatorship of Cuba subject to strong Sino-Soviet in›uence.” It also included the provisions that individual freedoms must be restored and collectivism in commerce and education eliminated. The formation of a political opposition was to be accompanied by a military and propaganda operation. Yet there were several concerns that needed to be addressed. One was the reaction of other Latin American countries to U.S. efforts to overthrow Castro. U.S. policymakers had been stung by Latin American protests, as evidenced among other things by CIA director Allen Dulles’s testimony to a Senate Committee on Foreign Relations in 1958 regarding Nixon’s tour of Latin America that year.40 Thomas Mann, the assistant secretary for Interamerican affairs, wanted thoroughly to conceal U.S. sponsorship.41 The White House and the CIA were also concerned about reactions from the press and other agencies (such as the State and Justice Departments) to the CIA’s violation of its own charter by its anti-Castro activities in Miami.42 When President John F. Kennedy took of‹ce he wanted to make sure that, if intervention in Cuba failed, it would not be perceived as his fault but, rather, that of the Cuban exiles directly involved; “plausible deniability,” the ability to hide the CIA’s direct involvement, was critical.43 ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 56

56 In the Land of Mirrors

The CIA promoted multiple organizations at the same time that it tried to get these organizations to form a united front. There were disagreements within the bureaucracy and Congress about the appropriate nature of the organizations that should be supported, with some promoting less ideologically driven politicians and others the more liberal and nationalist groups. But agreements were ‹nally reached, and by early 1960 the CIA had facilitated a meeting of organizations it deemed necessary for a united front. Whether or not this coalition would be considered a government in exile was a point hotly contested by the State Department’s lawyers, who were concerned about formal recognition because the United States still had full diplomatic relations with the Castro government. In addition, of‹cial recognition would break with past policy in that it would recognize a “government” that existed outside national territory and one that did not control the state apparatus.44 Nonetheless, the Frente (Front), as it was ‹rst called, was formed in the spring of 1960 at a meeting at New York’s Statler Hotel hosted by CIA agent Frank Bender.45 The formation of the group was announced publicly in Mexico City on June 21, 1960; it included the following men, described to the president by the State Department as follows:46

• Manuel Antonio de Varona, leader of a large faction of the Auten- ticos, the of‹cial political party during the administration of Ramón Grau San Martin and Carlos Prío Socarras (1944–52); • Justo Carrillo, head of the Montecristi Group formed in 1952 by wealthy professionals and businessmen in opposition to the Batista dictatorship; • José Ignacio Rasco, head of the Christian Democratic Movement (MDC) formed in late 1959 by young Catholic groups in opposition to the Castro regime; • Manuel Artime, nominal head of the Movimiento Recuperacion Revolucionaria, an underground anti-Castro movement formed in 1959 whose members consisted principally of defectors from the July 26 Movement; and • Rafael Sardiña Sanchez, former vice president of the Asociacíon de Colonos Cubanos (Cuban Association of Sugar Cane Cutters). (He is not identi‹ed as a member of this group in any lists.)

The ‹fth member of the group was Aureliano Sanchez Arango, a member of the United Front of National Liberation who had served as minister of education and state in the Prio administration. Both his closeness to the communists and his attitude—he was described by the Ameri- cans as a prima donna—made him a controversial ‹gure in Washington.47 ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 57

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Curiously, one of the CIA operators on the Cuban case listed Antonio Maceo, the grandson of the one of the generals of the War of Indepen- dence, as the ‹fth person. Apparently, there was either confusion or dis- agreement (or both) within the U.S. bureaucracy regarding the composi- tion of the group. At the same time, military training had begun two months earlier, when President Eisenhower authorized the CIA to attempt to overthrow the Castro government. Cuban émigrés provided the human resources to implement a military strategy against Cuba that would appear to be Cuban in origin. Estimates of the number of Cubans who received military training from the United States range from two thousand to ‹fteen thousand.48 The most dramatic action would be an invasion, training for which took place in the United States, Guatemala, and Nicaragua. Operatives received a monthly pension from the U.S. government for themselves and their families: $175 for themselves, $50 for the ‹rst child, and $25 for each additional child.49 Conditions were terrible for those in training. Kept in the dark about the political maneuvering taking place behind the scenes in Washington and Miami, the men in the camps, many of whom had fought for the revolution, felt underrepresented and marginalized. One of their concerns was that the more liberal sectors of the opposition had been excluded from the political organization. Con›icts erupted, and the men went on strike. On March 18, 1961, Tony de Varona and Manuel Ray, at one time described as the Frente’s coordinators for the island,50 met to negotiate the expansion of the Frente and agree on a spokesman. The strike had resulted in the dissolution of the Frente and the formation of a new civic political structure called El Consejo Revolucionario Cubano (Cuban Revolution- ary Council).51 This expansion was also supported by liberals in the Kennedy administration such as Arthur Schlesinger Jr., whose candidate, José Miró Car- dona, former law professor and the ‹rst prime minister of the revolutionary government, was elected as coordinator over Felipe Pazos, Ray’s candidate.52 Tracey Barnes of the CIA described the members’ political leanings, underlining the names of the original members of the Frente; there was a discrepancy about Aureliano Sanchez Arango, who at the time did not join the Consejo in protest over the inclusion of former politicians in a provisional government (see table 2).53 The group’s platform consisted of twelve points, including the reestablishment of the 1940 Constitution as well as a commitment to hold elections within eighteen months.54 The new organization, however, had its opponents in the U.S. government, among them Senator Thomas Dodd from Connecticut, at the time vice chairman of the Internal Security Sub- ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 58

58 In the Land of Mirrors

committee. On March 23, 1961, he wrote to Secretary of State Dean Rusk about his concerns that Jose Miro Cardona, Manuel Ray, and Felipe Pazos were anti-American and had socialist leanings, calling them left- wing turncoats. In addition, he was extremely concerned about the amount of money being paid to the various organizations directly under the control of the CIA, saying that, “this operation meant that some Cubans had never had it so good as during exile and consequently acquired a ‹nancial interest in preserving the Castro regime.”55 After months of training the Bay of Pigs invasion was launched.56 Despite the demand from the soldiers that Cuban exile political organizations and not the CIA be in charge of the operation, the role of the exile organizations continued to be essentially propagandistic. On April 17, 1961, the day of the invasion, the members of El Consejo were locked in barracks at a military camp in Opa-Locka, Florida, unable to communi- cate with “their” soldiers; in fact, they were not even told that the invasion was under way. This, however, was not surprising given the CIA’s view that Cubans were not to be trusted. The CIA’s psychological pro‹le of Cubans described them as follows:

From a management point of view the Cuban may seem disappoint- ing in long-range performance and at the same time overly sensitive to criticism. . . . the biggest problem appears to be that of long-term loyalty and control. Essentially, the Cuban is loyal only to himself.57

Disregard for the exiles was again apparent when council members tried to see the president after the invasion had failed. Arthur Schlesinger Jr. was worried about the impact of such a visit and warned in a memo:

Exiles who see the President are likely to try to make capital of this when they return to the Cuban community. FBI clearance is not

TABLE 2. Exile Groups Left Left of Center Center Right Carrillo Artime Varona Rasco Maceo Jesus Fernandez Collada Fernandez Travieso Vargas Gómez (Labor, 30 November) (Labor for (student for Carlos Hevia Fraginals) Müller) Goar Mestre Alvarez Díaz Sergio Carbo Pepin Bosch ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 59

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enough. If this should turn out to be a responsible and representative group, I see no objection. Indeed such a presentation might help in composing the feelings of the Cuban exile community. We do not, however, regard this as a high priority.58

Schlesinger did, however, urge the president to call Dr. Miró Cardona, who was afraid that his son, captured in the invasion, would be executed. “The feeling is that his anguish would be relieved if you were to call him and express sympathy.” His concern with negative press is re›ected in the postscript: “Cardona is holding a press conference from 11:30 to 12:30.”59 The U.S. attempt to hide its military actions behind a Cuban exile screen failed. But the consequences of having trained a secret army would be felt throughout the next decade. The CIA now had highly specialized small teams with which to carry out a covert war against Castro and other governments.60 The military actions had their in›uence on politics as well.

Foreign Policy Contours of Exile Politics

The origins of the Cuban exile are anchored in both the foreign policy objectives of the U.S. state and the internal policies of the Cuban state. Exiles provide the United States with military resources and ideological cannon fodder. As long as Cuban émigrés were exiles and not a part of the United States, the administrations in Washington could deny involvement in the military actions taken by them against the revolution. Because of their exile status, they provided plausible deniability to the CIA and other agencies involved in the covert war against the Castro regime. Exiles also ful‹lled the ideological functions of providing evidence that communism is a repressive system; they had shown that they preferred to ›ee to a free country. Legal de‹nitions within the United States as well as U.S. aid to the exile community contributed to this distinct exile identity. These international, bureaucratic, and political concerns all contributed to institu- tionalizing practices that in effect created Cuban exiles and turned Miami, where most exiles landed, into a foreign city on U.S. soil. Cuban state policies also in›uenced the formation of the exile community. By equating ›eeing with treason, the Cuban government used (and continues to use) the exiles as a rallying point. Externalizing opposition allows the Cuban government to get rid of its dissidents in a way that renders them impotent to launch legitimate challenges to the government. Such has been the case for most exiles of the twentieth century, including those from the Spanish Civil War, Vietnamese, and Chileans.61 Often home country governments equate abandoning the regime with treason, and thus the process of exodus becomes one of delegitimation. ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 60

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This is particularly effective if the host country is at war with or is antagonistic to the home country. A force tied to one of the nation’s historical enemies has little chance of mounting a popular claim against the government. The Cuban revolution delegitimized those who left by de‹ning their exit as “de‹nitive.” They were no longer considered part of the nation. Worse, they migrated to the United States, a host country that was a historical as well as a contemporary enemy of Cuba. The revolution fueled an exile that, in the short run, may have externalized opposition but, in the long run, institutionalized exile as a persistent feature of the Cuban and American landscape. The interaction between U.S. foreign policy objectives and Cuban domestic security policies fueled the creation of a Cuban community abroad in exile. The close interaction of national security agencies within Cuba and the United States created political organizations and ideologies that were then consolidated within the community. In effect, Cuba’s need to divide the opposition and the U.S. need to control it may have contributed to the proliferation of the many groups operating in exile. From 1960 on the CIA’s strategy to defeat Castro relied on military action.62 These actions institutionalized a series of practices that cemented the military functions Cuban émigrés continued to ful‹ll for the United States. On the one hand, Cuban émigrés were part of U.S. foreign policy, since they received monies and training from the CIA and carried out orders. On the other hand, émigrés were kept away from the centers of power and treated as nationals of another state. Through this distancing, the United States could avoid taking responsibility for the émigrés’ actions. The militarization of this opposition by the United States and the promotion of hard-line policies on both sides of the Florida Straits encouraged antidemocratic tendencies within the community and contributed to the politics of intolerance.63 This had a negative in›uence on the political culture of the exile. Once outside national territory and without links to the internal opposition, exile activism became exaggerated and out of touch with the internal dynamics of the island. The United States promoted the exile/sol- dier as a militant, but, when the United States disengaged from active opposition to the Castro regime, the militant activist came to be considered a terrorist.64 Politics is articulated through political organizations. In the case of postrevolutionary Cubans in the United States it was the national security apparatus and policies that had a dominant in›uence on exile politics. U.S. foreign policies directed at overthrowing and discrediting the Cuban revolution were implemented in part by Cuban émigrés. Having arrived in the United States, many Cuban émigrés participated in military actions ch2.qxd 10/11/1999 9:51 AM Page 61

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backed by the United States, such as the Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961. Through these dynamics the U.S. intelligence network gave life to the ‹rst political organizations and leaders in the Cuban community. This connection continued after the failure of Bay of Pigs as the U.S. government again tried to engage exiles in its war against Castro. ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 62

CHAPTER 3 The 1960s: Entrance, Backlash, and Resettlement Programs

The military and political relationship between Cuban émigrés and the United States had a profound in›uence on the development of the exile community. The U.S.-sponsored military operations were accompanied by a series of evacuation and immigration programs that will be explored in this chapter. After the failure of the Bay of Pigs invasion it became clear that the temporary exiles would be around for some time. Local reaction, which had not been uniformly supportive of the exiles in the ‹rst place, intensi‹ed and the federal government responded with a massive effort to relocate Cubans out of Miami. As refugees continued to leave Cuba, Con- gress worried about the lack of stringent security clearances for those entering the United States. In the midst of contradictory federal policies, negative local reactions, and increasingly heterogeneous immigration, Cuban exile communities became established throughout the United States, although Miami remained the largest center.

Entrance: The Visa Waiver Program

The movement of Cubans to the United States was ‹rst conceived as a way of evacuating U.S. agents and their families from the island and was expected to last for only a limited time. The program included granting visas and sometimes visa waivers to key ‹gures in the underground opposition. Manuel Ray, for example, received visas from the U.S. Embassy not only for himself but also for his wife, children, and the children’s nursemaid to come to the United States.1 The same was the case for José Miró Cardona, whose departure from Cuba was a topic of correspondence between the ambassador and the State Department.2 Others received visa waivers. Yet these extraordinary documents presented various problems. For one, the underground was afraid that Cuban security would uncover their cells if they were found to be holding visa waivers. Once in the United States people with visa waivers had no legal status. This issue was noted in

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a Department of State memorandum of a conversation held between a group of individuals whose names remain classi‹ed and Charles Torrey, of the Caribbean and Mexican Affairs Division, dated March 23, 1960. Among the various requests presented by the group was a plea to help the “great number of Cuban exiles in the U.S. on visitors’ visas or illegally.”3 The “visa problem” as it was referred to by State Department of‹cials, was cause for concern. A memorandum of conversation dated November 29, 1960, entitled “Activities against the Castro Regime,” in which members of the Frente Democrático Revolucionario were present, stated that

Cuban refugees arriving in this country were most reluctant to issue strong denunciatory blasts against the Castro regime so long as their immediate families remained in Cuba. For this reason, it was frequently of great operational interest to expedite visas for family members, however it was usually very dif‹cult if not impossible to arrange such matters. The standard answer received was that another of‹ce, another department or another agency of the United States had jurisdiction.4

The memo also records a rationale for increasing government ‹nancial assistance to refugees in Miami; it raises questions about the prevailing notion that the assistance program to Cuban refugees was conceived as a way to lure refugees to the United States:

the latter are arriving without clothing or personal effects or funds. On humanitarian grounds they must be taken care and the FDR frequently “stakes them.” This represents a strain on its funds, however, and it should be borne in mind that if other resources were made available to care for the refugees it would help to ease the drain on FDR funds and allow them to be used in more productive ways.5

This note casts doubt on the prevailing notion that U.S. government social programs were put in place as a way of luring Cuban exiles to the United States; rather, it suggests, the programs were put in place as a way of insuring that monies earmarked for military purposes were not siphoned off for family needs. It was military needs that dictated the procedures used to bring Cubans to the United States as well as the social services provided.

Children’s Visa Waiver Program

The underground’s family needs also led to another program unprecedented in U.S. immigration history. Members of the underground opposi- ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 64 ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 65

TRIUMPHS

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66 In the Land of Mirrors

tion became fearful that visa waivers given to their families, speci‹cally children, would make them susceptible to retaliation by the Cuban government. Therefore, a special program for children of members of the underground was conceived. This became known as Operation Pedro Pan. According to James Baker, at the time headmaster of the Rustin Academy in Havana, members of the underground contacted him about securing the safe exit of their children from Cuba. He then spoke with U.S. Embassy representatives, who granted him two hundred student visas. Father Bryan Walsh, a Catholic priest in Miami who had been in charge of relocating Hungarian freedom ‹ghters following the 1956 repression, was asked by State Department of‹cials to take care of the children. This method had to be abandoned, however, after the break in U.S. diplomatic relations with Cuba in 1961, for there was now no embassy to issue visas. The Swiss Embassy had taken over some of the duties of the U.S. Embassy, but not all consular activities had been transferred. At the time there was no quota for immigrants from the Western hemisphere, but Cubans still needed a visa to enter the United States, and airlines would be ‹ned if they brought someone without documents into the United States. Some Cubans still held valid U.S. visas, but many did not. If Cubans were to receive a visa through the Swiss Embassy, they could not be interviewed by U.S. of‹cials on the spot, as State Department security procedures required. The quickest way out of the country was through a visa waiver program. Technically, the U.S. State Department in concurrence with the Jus- tice Department could authorize the issuance of visa waivers for emergency evacuations.6 Two distinct visa waiver programs were set up, one for members of the underground and the other for children. Father Walsh was put in charge of the children’s program. Blanket visa waivers were issued only to children under sixteen years of age. Children between sixteen and eighteen needed clearance from the Immigration and Naturalization Ser- vice (INS) of‹ce in Miami and the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI). Once in the United States children could claim their parents by applying to the State Department for their visa waiver; their parents’ security checks took three to four months. In Cuba priests and nuns played a key role in identifying the children who would participate in the program; they would submit the names to their contacts and would, on occasion, be the ones who distributed the visa waivers. The other visa waiver program was run through the underground. The Revolutionary Council, the political organization that had replaced the Frente, had a liaison who would collect applications from relatives in Miami for people they wanted to get out of Cuba. These were then shipped to Washington. A June 1961 memorandum of conversation from the ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 67

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Department of State records a meeting between Dr. Carlos Piad, identi‹ed as the Washington representative of the Cuban Revolutionary Council, and Robert Hurwitch, of the State Department, attesting to this arrangement.7 But not all council members were happy with the system; they claimed that they needed a neutral liaison, not one who was allied to any particular organization. After this development Tony de Varona, one of the directors of the council, named Wendell Rollason to deal with the waivers. Rollason, the director of a local Miami organization that had been helping Latin American refugees, had been contacted by State Department of‹cials to help with the visa waiver program.8 Robert Hur- witch wrote to Varona, “we would prefer that all matters regarding visa waivers of interest to the Council be forwarded to this of‹ce by one person in order to administer the Council’s requests most ef‹ciently.”9 In effect both programs gave a private individual the authority to grant visa waivers. There is no historical precedent for such an arrangement.

Massive Exodus: Propaganda Coup

While the origins of the visa waiver programs were in the underground and military operations, they gained a life of their own as the rush to get out of Cuba continued to grow. In addition, refugees ›eeing communism had a symbolic value for the United States. The reasons can be found in the foreign policy objectives of the Eisenhower and Kennedy administrations, which included the need to show the failure of the Cuban revolution.10 Consider the case of the former president of the Cuban Supreme Court, Emilio Menéndez, as reported in a Department of State telegram on December 19, 1960:

Dr. Menéndez wishes to remain in U.S. with family which reportedly is now there. Given his prominence and decision to break with Castro regime for reasons speci‹ed in his letter of resignation, Embassy believes it is in our national interest to allow him to stay in the U.S.11

The ideological campaign against the Cuban revolution had begun early and the political discourse of the time was cast in the anticommunist language of the 1950s. A good representation of this discourse is found in a State Department document released days before the Bay of Pigs invasion. The themes that run through the report include the betrayal of the middle class by the revolution, the establishment of a communist beachhead in the Western hemisphere, the delivery of the revolution to the Sino- Soviet bloc, and the assault on the hemisphere.12 For U.S. policymakers the strongest evidence of the betrayal of the ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 68

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revolution and its failure to live up to democratic ideals was the emigration of thousands of Cubans, particularly those from the middle class. The much-used phrase “voting with your feet” re›ected the vision of many policymakers; as one congressional representative said, “Every refugee who comes out [of Cuba] is a vote for our society and a vote against their society.”13 In particular, massive migration of professionals proved to the world that the revolution was failing and, more speci‹cally, was betraying the middle class.14 In 1960 President Eisenhower approved funds to help Cuban refugees arriving in the United States. He named Tracy Voorhees to head a presidential commission on Cuban refugees (earlier Voorhees had coordinated the president’s Hungarian refugee program). Funds were allocated for a host of refugee activities through the president’s Mutual Security Fund. Days after taking of‹ce, John F. Kennedy continued this program and ordered Abraham Ribicoff, secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare (HEW), to direct Cuban refugee activities. The memo to this effect read:

I want you to make concrete my concern and sympathy for those who have been forced from their homes in Cuba, and assure them that we will expedite their voluntary return as soon as conditions there facilitate that . . . Here and abroad, I want to re-emphasize most strongly the tradition of the United States as a humanitarian sanctuary . . . [The United States] has extended its hand and material help to those who are exiles for conscience’s sake.15

At this time the refugee program was still conceived as temporary. On February 2, 1961, the day after Ribicoff assumed his new post, he reported to the president, “The ›ight from the oppression and tyranny of the Cas- tro regime by large numbers of Cuban people to the United States is stir- ring testimony to their faith in the determination of the Americas to preserve freedom and justice.”16 Ribicoff asked that an additional four million dollars be allocated to augment the one million that had been authorized by Eisenhower the previous month. Congress was also aware of the ideological value of the Cuban refugees. In the summer of 1961 the House Committee on the Judiciary held hearings on a bill to amend the Immigration Act of July 1960 to enable the executive branch to resettle certain refugees. Included in the amendments was a section authorizing the president to allocate monies for the resettlement of refugees from communist-dominated or communist- occupied areas. The president’s letter to the committee made speci‹c reference to Cuban refugees. Secretary Ribicoff also made an appeal for more funds and reported that, among other programs, to date more than ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 69

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$500,000 had been spent to resettle seven hundred unaccompanied Cuban children. Roger Jones, deputy undersecretary of state, explained the rationale for the request to extend the refugee programs and amend the language of the enabling legislation: “Programs under review by this committee could be fully justi‹ed on a humanitarian basis alone, all the programs are of utmost importance to our foreign policy in terms of their economic, social, political and spiritual signi‹cance.”17

Backlash: Shutting the Doors

While congressional committees seemed friendly to the overall thrust of the resettlement program, there were many concerns. Some representatives questioned whether or not the refugees were economic rather than political migrants. More disturbing to Congress was the method of entrance into the United States and the status of those already here. According to James Hennessy, executive assistant to the Commissioner of Immigration and Naturalization of the Department of Justice, as of July 31, 1961, there were 65,700 Cubans in the United States apart from permanent residents. Of these, 24,000 were nonimmigrants admitted for temporary periods; 41,700 were classi‹ed as refugees, of which 4,500 were parolees; and 37,200 were originally of nonimmigrant status and had overstayed their visas. In other words, there had been little control of who and how people had entered. When asked about the screening procedures for those granted visa waivers, Hennessy refused to answer but said he would do so under executive session, since the screening procedures were supposed to be secret. Hennessy went on to con‹rm that before the State Department granted a visa waiver the name of the person was checked against the CIA’s Caribbean index to see if he or she was a subversive and the name was then sent to the FBI and the CIA. In 1961, 30,000 visa waivers had been issued. Several members of the committee were extremely concerned about the security measures taken to insure that Cubans receiving the waivers were checked. The problem was that there was no U.S. Embassy in Havana, and the ‹les normally kept by embassies include background information on people who apply for tourist visas.18 A few months later, in December 1961, a subcommittee of the Sen- ate’s Committee on the Judiciary met to investigate problems connected with refugees and escapees. This time the visa waiver program is described as follows:

Visa waiver is an emergency procedure for persons traveling direct from Cuba to the United States. The bene‹ciaries of this action have ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 70

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been primarily parents, spouses and minor children of persons already in the United States; Cuban children coming to the United States for study, either supported by their parents or sponsored by the voluntary agencies; and visitors for urgent and legitimate business or personal affairs. Waivers have also been approved for a limited number of persons not meeting the above criteria, whose cases involve overriding factors of compassion accepted as justifying emergency action.19

But the senators, like the representatives, were also concerned about security procedures. Hennessy updated the number of visa waivers issued, which by the end of 1961 numbered more than 80,000. By December 20,000 of these had been used. Those involved in the visa waiver programs made strong appeals to Congress that the program continue, arguing that the programs represented an important weapon in the ideological ‹ght between communism and freedom. The unaccompanied children’s program was a key focus of the testimony of Wendell Rollason, at the time director of the Interameri- can Affairs Commission in Miami and the person named as liaison to the State Department on matters pertaining to visa waivers: “The visa waiver program . . . is the very lifeblood of the average Cuban in his hopes and plans to escape the ravages of communism.” He went on to recommend that the visa waiver program be continued.20 Father Bryan Walsh, who had been granted the authority to issue visa waivers to children and was their principal caretaker once in the United States, testi‹ed about the unaccompanied children’s program but asked that the number of unaccompanied Cuban children be kept secret out of fear that the Cuban government would decide to shut off the supply of exit visas.21 The visa waiver program ran until October 1962, when, days before the missile crisis, the Cuban government canceled all ›ights leaving or entering the island. On the U.S. side, instead of fomenting emigration to show the world that people wanted to ›ee communism, the State Depart- ment now wanted to put enough pressure on the island to create an internal uprising. An air isolation campaign was put in place to insure that mis- siles could not be brought onto the island. At the time many families were divided, with about six thousand unaccompanied children waiting in the United States for their parents. In 1963 the Senate’s Committee on the Judiciary heard the testimony of Dr. Ellen Winston, commissioner of Welfare Administration for HEW, who asked that the State Department give priority for immigration to parents of the unaccompanied children. Cubans were transported back to the ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 71

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United States on the ships that had taken medicine and food to Cuba in exchange for the Bay of Pigs prisoners. HEW succeeded in getting the State Department to include 200 parents of unaccompanied Cuban children among the 750 Cubans aboard these cargo ships. The director of the Cuban Refugee Program was asked by the Senate committee if the Cuban government had helped in this request, and he answered yes. Security concerns were echoed in House hearings on June 27, 1963. Mario Noto, associate INS commissioner, testi‹ed about the security procedures in place, but part of his discussion centered on how information about incoming refugees was collected.22 There was controversy regarding the Cuban committee that screened visa waiver applicants, since a former expert on communist activities for Batista was part of the committee’s staff, and many felt that he tried to exclude refugees who had opposed Batista. A new and more restrictive U.S. policy was reiterated by the administration of Lyndon B. Johnson after Kennedy’s assassination. “Since July 1, 1963 . . . we have discouraged an in›ux of Cuban refugees. The crowded and potentially explosive situation in Miami and the pursuit of our isolation policy have counseled against further substantial in›ow.”23 Negotiations between the United States and Cuba were initiated when the Swiss ambassador to Cuba offered to talk to the Cuban authorities on the United States’ behalf about exit visas for parents of children in the United States and to pay for ›ights out of Havana. In these negotiations Cuba offered to allow refugees to visit Cuba. But the State Depart- ment refused both the entrance of Cuban exiles and refugee visits to the island on the grounds that it was more important to keep Cuba isolated than to resolve the problem of the unaccompanied children. Cuba’s response to the lack of emigration channels was to invite exiles in the United States to come pick up their relatives. On October 10, 1965, the port of Camarioca, near Varadero Beach, was opened. Within weeks more than 5,000 Cuban refugees had been transported to the United States in scores of exile-manned boats traversing the Florida Straits. Another 200,000 were estimated to be ready to leave before the exodus was abruptly cut short because of U.S. security concerns surrounding the Soviet missile crisis. The severity of the situation had forced the United States to negotiate an agreement with the Cuban government, ‹nalized in a memorandum of understanding signed on November 6, 1965. The agreement called for the orderly movement of Cuban refugees to the United States. The Cuban government would give exit permits to those wishing to leave the island, while the United States would transport and accept the refugees. Two daily ›ights from Varadero to Miami were set up. By the ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 72

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time these “Freedom Flights” were canceled, in April 1973, more than 260,561 Cubans had used them as a way to come to the United States. An estimated two billion dollars was spent on the refugee program, including the unaccompanied minors component.24 The U.S. government had expected that the Cubans’ stay on U.S. soil would be temporary. As it became clear that this was not the case, other programs designed to ease integration into the United States were established, such as a scholarship fund supported by HEW to help Cubans pay for college education. Unlike that of other Latin American immigrants, the entry and settlement of Cubans into North American society was greatly facilitated by the U.S. government. The high political currency attached to the ›ight from communism meant that it paid to be a political refugee.25 For the U.S. government Cuban émigrés provided the rationale for continuing a foreign policy aimed at containing communism and expanding the forces needed for battle.26 For the Cuban government the Cuban exodus to the United States helped consolidate the revolution politically by externalizing dissent and rendering it impotent.27 By encouraging the ›ow of Cuban refugees into the United States and supporting them once they arrived, the U.S. government inadvertently helped facilitate the formation of a more politically pliable population on the island.28

TABLE 3. Cuban Migration to the United States, 1959–72 Year Total Immigrated 1959 26,527 1960 60,224 1961 49,961 1962 78,611 1963 42,929 1964 15,616 1965 16,477 1966 46,688 1967 52,147 1968 55,945 1969 52,625 1970 49,545 1971 50,001 1972 23,977 Source: Thomas Boswell and J. R. Curtis, The Cuban-Ameri- can Experience (Totowa, NJ: Rowman and Allanheld, 1984), 42. ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 73

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Local Reactions and the Relocation Movement

Upon arriving in Miami, Cubans were required to register at the Refugee Center that had been set up by the federal government in 1961. “El Refu- gio” provided social services, including food packages consisting of dried milk and eggs, peanut butter, oil, and Spam. Many new émigrés lived in the homes of relatives who had arrived before them. Family outings consisted of a day at the beach and a stop at a Royal Castles fast food restau- rant, which ran a Sunday night special of ten hamburgers for a dollar. Children went to public schools, which, although overcrowded, quickly set up bilingual programs. The initial expectation was that everyone would be back on the island soon or at least by the following year. As time wore on, these hopes gave way to the reality of living and raising families in the United States and facing the discrimination that appeared when local residents realized the Cubans were here to stay. In contrast to the popular image of Cubans being welcomed to the United States with open arms, an examination of the reaction to the in›ux in Miami indicates that some Americans were extremely leery about the arrival of Cuban exiles. The area’s residents shared some of the same fears expressed by congressional representatives. Local of‹cials such as Arthur Patten, Dade County commissioner, stated to Congress that the “large in›ux of Cuban refugees presented a threat to the local balance of power, particularly if they were thinking of voting.” He testi‹ed that his con- stituents were fearful of the “changing complexion of the City of Miami.”29 Throughout the United States, and in South Florida in particular, Cubans were not always welcome. It was not uncommon in the early 1960s, for instance, to see “For Rent” signs in Miami that read “No Chil- dren, No Pets, No Cubans.” Unlike federal policy that seemingly encouraged migration, local and state governments and communities often rejected Cuban exiles, particularly when it was clear that they were in the United States to stay. Local authorities in Miami effectively pressured the federal government to begin dispersing Cubans throughout the United States.30 The same concept of relocation that had been used to alleviate overcrowding in the children’s camps was extended to adults. Parents of unaccompanied children were ›own to the States and reunited with their children outside of Miami. (About half the children who had come to the United States through Operation Pedro Pan were reunited with their parents.) My own parents came four months after I arrived in Miami. We were moved to Cleveland, Ohio. One of the stated goals of the Cuban Refugee Program was to relocate ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 74

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Cubans out of Florida. The resettlement was done by private organizations—the U.S. Catholic Conference, Church World Service, the United HIAS Service, and the International Rescue Committee. These four organizations insured that social service organizations representing diverse reli- gions were involved in the resettlement effort. Also involved were the four organizations that had overseen the unaccompanied children’s program. Refugees’ transportation to relocation sites was paid for, and, once relocated, refugees received help from these agencies in ‹nding housing and jobs for the head of household.31 By 1978, 300,232 persons had been resettled.32 The resettlement program was the means by which Cubans were dispersed throughout the United States.

Golden Exiles?

The Cuban exile community has been shaped by its internal dynamics as well as by the host society’s reaction to it. U.S. and Cuban policies combined to create the Cuban exile, but sectors within the community soon began to articulate their own interests. Initially, among other things, the Cuban community in the United States had an overrepresentation of elite groups that had been overthrown on the island. This fragmented elite was composed of many sectors, including landowners, ‹nanciers, professionals, and small business owners. A disproportionate number of these elites left after the revolution, bringing with them experience, knowledge, habits, and, in many cases, social relationships that over time were replicated within North American society. As the exile community matured, it developed its own economic and political interests, such as participation in U.S. political organizations and defense of the use of Spanish in Miami. Professionals and skilled workers were overrepresented in the ‹rst wave of exiles. Yet, even by 1961, following the Bay of Pigs invasion and prior to the missile crisis, Cuban immigrants were more heterogeneous and included many nonprofessionals, such as clerical workers.33 From 1962 to 1965 illegal entrants from Cuba were predominantly male skilled and semiskilled workers. After 1965 the socioeconomic characteristics of Cuban émigrés changed again, becoming even more heterogeneous as a result of political repression and economic crisis on the island. Those leaving had increasingly diverse occupational backgrounds; included were many nonprofessionals, such as mechanics and farmers. In addition, people residing outside the Havana metropolitan area now joined the exodus, resulting in greater regional representation. Women and children were overrepresented among those headed for the United States, at least in part because of Cuban restrictions forbidding males of military age to emigrate.34 ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 75

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In 1973 National Geographic heralded those “amazing Cubans” for turning their skills into prosperity within years of their arrival in the United States.35 But, contrary to the popular image of the “golden exile,” the fortunes of Cuban exiles were mixed.36 Studies indicated that most Cuban émigrés experienced a downturn in their occupational status after moving to the United States. While many professionals, such as doctors, were able to transfer their skills readily, others, such as public administrators, lawyers, and even some scientists, could not make the same adjustment. As such, there was a tremendous loss of human capital for Cubans in the United States. Even those who were able to transfer their skills declined in social position. While faring relatively better than other Lati- nos, they nevertheless did not maintain the standing in U.S. society that they had held in Cuba. They were no longer their country’s elite but, rather, were part of one of the United States’s many immigrant communities. Cubans have attained higher educational and income levels than other Latinos, but they have lagged behind the average white family. The incorporation of Cuban women into the labor force was also much higher than that of all women, and, as such, Cuban family income statistics were in›ated.37 In addition, female labor force participation changed the nature of family and its economy.38 While work was available in Miami, it was often in low-paying, dead-end jobs with few bene‹ts. And, indeed, the presence of a strong Cuban-based economy may lure the second generation away from their studies and into Cuban-owned businesses. Although Cuban exiles of the early 1960s experienced a net decline in their economic and social position after coming to the United States, they eventually built an impressive economic base in Miami and other cities.39 The growth of what has come to be known as the Cuban enclave economy has many roots. Some scholars have focused on the close match between the kinds of jobs available in the United States, particularly South Florida, and the labor and educational experience of the immigrants.40 Others have emphasized the complex of skills and attitudes present in the ‹rst wave of exiles.41 Yet it is undeniable that much of the economic health of the Cuban exile community was facilitated by U.S. government grants extended to émigrés in the context of the cold war. Given the secrecy of these operations, it is dif‹cult to determine how much of the money the CIA poured into Miami was actually used to set up “front” businesses or to sustain families while the men were ‹ghting. But it did change the economic landscape; for instance, years later local Anglo business owners complained to the government that they had been displaced by CIA- funded businesses. When the federal government responded that such businesses had not been set up to make money, local businesspeople ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 76

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responded that this was precisely the problem. They could not compete effectively with a business that did not have to worry about making a pro‹t. Scholars of the late 1960s noted the self-employment patterns of the enclave economy and how social networks aided in its expansion.42 While the enclave provided jobs and a familiar cultural milieu, its success rested in part on the ability to extract cheap labor from Cuban workers. The ideological glue that cemented the enclave was the ‹ght against Castro. Not only were émigré political organizations involved in opposition to the Cuban regime; they also exerted control over workers within the enclave.43 The hegemony within the Cuban émigré community of its most intransigent forces can be traced back to early anti-Castro activities. These conservative elements had an uneasy relationship with the more liberal- minded parts of the opposition,44 which, once defeated, lost credibility and consequently their standing in the ideological matrix of the community.45 As a result, institutionalized political power that emerged in the ‹rst instance from a connection with state foreign policies also helped generate ethnic capital. Despite their economic successes, Cubans still faced overt racial and cultural discrimination. Cuban exiles spoke a different language, and those who did learn English generally spoke with an accent. Exiles also had distinct cultural values, particularly concerning family relations and sexuality, that clashed with those prevalent in the United States. These elements combined to isolate Cuban exiles from mainstream society. Middle-class Cubans and professionals were thrust into associations and institutions that in the South in particular had been almost exclusively white. The entrance into society of large numbers of people perceived to be nonwhite (even though most Cuban exiles at the time were “white” in the context of their homeland) heightened a backlash against Cubans. The experience of being a privileged exile and unwanted immigrant at the same time engendered a contradictory status for Cubans in the United States. The results were twofold: a heightened sense of nationalism and a distinct U.S. minority experience. While Cuban exiles have not faced the kind of historical discrimination experienced by other Latino and minority communities, discrimination has been felt strongly. This may in fact be due to the class and education background of the émigrés themselves. A study of male Cuban émigrés in the late 1970s, for example, found that the higher the educational level the more discrimination was felt (see table 4).46 These ‹ndings are consistent with similar analyses of the experiences of the Mexican-American middle class in the Southwest, which show that questions of identity, particularly language issues, are mainly the concerns ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 77

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of the middle class; it is this sector of minority communities that is pressured most strongly to conform to the dominant society.47 This may be due to their greater contact with the majority population, or it may be that their perception of discrimination is heightened. Whatever the case, Cubans, like other Latinos, enter a “racialized” political environment in which they are perceived to be nonwhite by the dominant culture, regardless of how they de‹ne themselves racially.

Exile Politics and Identity

Exile politics emerged from two contradictory realities. In the early 1960s exiles shared the strategic political goal of overthrowing the revolution—a goal that coincided with U.S. policy at the time. But this strategic uniformity obscured the ideological pluralism that characterized the opposition.48 Early exile politics was extremely diverse. The opponents of the revolution were not only ultra-Right landowners and business people but also students and religious activists. Adherents of many political tendencies encompassed the exile body politic, including social and Christian Democ- rats. But the political culture in which politics unfolded had little tolerance for dissent. In addition, in‹ghting and power struggles contributed to deep divisions within the émigré community. A study entitled “Cuban Unity against Castro” undertaken by a special committee of the Justices of the Cuban Supreme Court noted that in 1962 there were two hundred anti- Castro organizations in exile: “The multiplicity of the exile groups re›ects the division and disunity among them. A further complicating factor is the

TABLE 4. Educational Attainment, 1960–93 Year Cuban Hispanic Total 1960 (NA) (NA) 7.7 1965 (NA) (NA) 9.4 1970 11.1 4.5 10.7 1975 (NA) (NA) 13.9 1980 16.2 7.6 16.2 1985 13.7 8.5 19.4 1990 20.2 9.2 21.3 1991 18.5 9.7 21.4 1992 18.4 9.3 21.4 1993 16.5 9.0 21.9 Source: Compiled from 1994 Statistical Abstract of the United States (Washington, DC): U.S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of the Cen- sus, 1995, table 232. ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 78

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gulf that exists between groups in exile and anti-Castro elements within Cuba.”49 The Cuban Revolutionary Council, which split after the failure of the Bay of Pigs invasion, was an example of this disunity. Manuel Ray went on to form his own organization in Puerto Rico called Junta Revolu- cionaria. El Directorio Estudiantil broke off from the other groups. And a debate was waged among other members of the council as to the legal path of succession after Castro’s fall. One group advocated a “presidential restoration formula” that called for restoring Carlos Prío Socarrás, the nation’s last popularly elected president. Another group called for a “constitutional formula” based on a provision in the Cuban Constitution of 1940 providing that a Supreme Court Justice be appointed provisional president until elections could be held.50 Their preferred candidate for president, Julio Garceran, had been chastised strongly by the Department of State for declaring that he had been chosen president of the Govern- ment of Cuba in Arms in Exile.51 Other groups fought in the underground. Tony Varona’s group, Rescate, continued ‹ghting in Cuba until its members were arrested and jailed in 1965. Among those organizations that continued to ‹ght in the Escambray Mountains in Cuba were El Segundo Frente del Escambray, headed by Eloy Gutiérrez Menoyo, who would become a leading spokesman for a reconciliation with the Cuban government, and the Insur- rectional Revolutionary Movement headed by Dr. Orlando Bosch, who would later be hunted by the FBI as a terrorist for his participation in the bombing of a Cubana airline in which over two hundred Cuban athletes died. Independent action by groups opposed to Castro was strongly discouraged by the United States. For instance, in 1963 a coalition of exile organizations proposed a referendum to choose leaders for the continued struggle against Fidel Castro. Promoted by Pepin Bosch, owner of the famous Bacardi Rum Company, the referendum aimed to “create a Cuban representation in Exile to make efforts to attain the liberty of Cuba” and also to “propitiate the integration of efforts and wills of all Cubans and all organizations pursuing the same patriotic goal of liberating our country.”52 The leading candidates included Erneido Oliva, a veteran of the Bay of Pigs invasion; Ernesto Freyre, secretary of the Cuban Families Committee, which helped negotiate the release of the Bay of Pigs prisoners; labor leader Vincente Rubeira; Aurelio Fernández, accountant and former member of El Movimiento Recuperacion Revolucionaria; and Jorge Más Canosa, a former law student in Cuba who had fought against Batista and later against Castro. Más Canosa would go on to become the most powerful Cuban exile leader in the 1980s. ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 79

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The U.S. government opposed the referendum. The State Depart- ment Of‹ce of the Coordinator of Cuban Affairs in Miami referred to the group as an “undistinguished ‹ve-man slate.”53 A note attached to a report sent to Robert Kennedy summarizes the positions of various agencies within the U.S. government: “CIA opposes the referendum. Crimmins says State is neutral on the referendum . . . probably not possible, very expensive and not necessarily a good idea if it could be done.”54 From then until 1965, the year the Cuban government defeated the internal counterrevolution, several exile groups led raids on the Cuban coast, smuggled arms and newspapers into Cuba. Robert Kennedy was now in charge of Cuban policy. General Edward Lansdale, CIA agent and real life character on which the novel the Ugly American is based, ran the day-to-day operations. The project was code named Operation Mongoose and included some of the more notorious attempts to assassinate Fidel Castro.55 Exile groups maintained an active fund-raising drive among Cubans in the United States. Fund-raising was frequently accomplished through extortion and threats; workers implicitly understood that their jobs depended on their contributions.56 By 1965 there were more than twenty thousand political prisoners on the island.57 Despite increased repression in Cuba, these years brought a general depoliticization of Cuba among the exile community. The concerns of daily life began to preoccupy the exiles, and returning to Cuba became a distant dream. As a result, military activities seemed out of place in the politics of the community and found expression, instead, in underground military organizations.58 The void created by the lack of legitimate political activity sparked an opportunity for different political tendencies to reemerge. Exile political identity developed in parallel to these various phases. As long as there was a possibility of returning to Cuba, those who left identi‹ed themselves as citizens of the island and temporary visitors to the United States. From the beginning of the revolution almost everyone, refugees and U.S. policymakers alike, had anticipated that Cuban exiles were only in the United States for the short time it would take for the Cuban revolution and Castro to fall. The legal status of Cuban exiles was uncertain because many had entered on visa waivers. Eventually, they were afforded the temporary category of “parolees.” By 1965 the revolutionary government in Havana was in ‹rm control of the island, and it was becoming uncertain whether Cuban exiles in the United States would ever return to Cuba. The practice of granting blanket political asylum to all refugees added to the émigré community’s sense of exile. As time passed and the possibility of return faded, exile identity became more of a political statement. ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 80

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In 1966 Congress passed the Cuban Adjustment Act, allowing Cuban refugees to become legal U.S. residents upon a petition for asylum. This act in effect acknowledged the end of the promise of returning to Cuba. The refugee program for Cubans continued, as local governments complained of the strain that these new immigrants were placing upon their cities. The program included bene‹ts such as food and cash allotments that were not extended to local residents, thereby sparking tensions between native residents and incoming refugees. African-Americans, in particular, were angered that the federal government would aid refugees from another country yet not assist those of their own community. Two ›ights a day arrived from Varadero. But these refugees, much like earlier waves, were not uniformly welcomed. Petitions and letters of protest poured into the Johnson White House. Citizens like Barbara Fal- lon exclaimed: “The world is laughing at us again, Mr. President . . . Fla- gler Street has become the main street of Havana . . . Where is our policy to ‘offer solace to refugees from Communist-held governments’ to stop?” Therese Muller, a ninth-grader whose father had decided to leave Miami, wrote to President Johnson: “sir, you don’t know what’s it like. Every where you go all you can here is Spanish . . . I have had my ‹ll of Cubans.” The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) wrote, “we are in favor of our national policy of admitting the oppressed of the Castro regime . . . however, the Federal government must exercise its responsibility toward the economically oppressed of this community.” And John Holland, a Los Angeles City councilman warned, “very dangerous decision . . . we may get trained agitators and sabo- teurs.”59 Despite community opposition, President Johnson put his full weight behind the relocation program. The program, initially designed for unaccompanied children and later extended to families, was reinstated. Through a series of private social service agency initiatives the government continued to lure Cubans from Miami to other parts of the country. The Catholic Church, through its social service arm, Catholic Charities, played a key role in these efforts. As a result, during the late 1960s and early 1970s Cuban communities emerged and grew in New York, New Jersey, Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles, and parts of Texas (see table 5). Despite the anti-Cuban backlash—or perhaps because of it—émigrés did maintain a sense of “Cuban-ness” through newspapers, professional and cultural associations, and, for those outside of Florida, yearly visits to Miami.60 Cubans already adept at combining various cultures into one continued their Cuban cultural practices at the same time that they lived in the United States. But these cultural practices tended to be frozen in time. ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 81

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Little Havana tried to replicate Old Havana down to the names of restaurants and social and professional organizations. News and political mes- sages were transmitted through small newspapers and eventually radio stations. These came to be known as the “‹ring squads of el exilio,” as anyone with a point of view that departed from the of‹cial exile ideology became the target of virulent radio personalities. Cubans in las colonias del norte (the northern colonies) constructed tightly woven social and political communities even as they adapted to new challenges. For instance, Cuban émigrés in Detroit invented a con-

TABLE 5. Resettled Refugees by State, as of December 1972 States Number of Refugees States Number of Refugees Alabama 415 Montana 152 Alaska 1 Nebraska 480 Arizona 234 Nevada 1,603 Arkansas 82 New Hampshire 142 California 39,223 New Jersey 58,791 Colorado 1,379 New Mexico 451 Connecticut 3,863 New York 80,483 Delaware 365 North Carolina 855 District of Columbia 2,322 North Dakota 46 Florida 12,626 Ohio 2,357 Georgia 2,366 Oklahoma 562 Hawaii 30 Oregon 1,105 Idaho 12 Pennsylvania 3,833 Illinois 22,243 Rhode Island 505 Indiana 1,681 South Carolina 304 Iowa 569 South Dakota 55 Kansas 1,022 Tennessee 593 Kentucky 361 Texas 5,353 Louisiana 8,269 Utah 15 Maine 32 Vermont 94 Maryland 1,803 Virginia 2,097 Massachusetts 8,184 Washington 431 Michigan 2,801 West Virginia 164 Minnesota 538 Wisconsin 698 Mississippi 110 Wyoming 19 Missouri 1,279 Source: Rafael Prohias and Lourdes Casal, The Cuban Minority in the U.S.: Preliminary Report on Need Identification and Program Evaluation (Boca Raton: Florida Atlantic Uni- versity, 1973), 111. ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 82

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traption for roasting pigs in the snow so that the typical Christmas Eve meal could be served. Yet, unlike Miami’s enclave, Cubans living in the North had to negotiate their politics and identity in the context of other emerging Latino communities. They were some of the ‹rst to witness the urban unrest of the late 1960s. Unlike the placid and patriotic early 1960s, the middle of the decade witnessed major transformations in U.S. society, including the rise of the antiwar and civil rights movements that mobilized African-American and Latino communities across the country. Because these movements demanded equality for all, the special treatment given to Cuban refugees was a sore point for many. For example, black leaders in Miami lodged formal complaints with the Johnson administration, insisting that they receive the same benefits given to newly arrived Cubans. In regard to the island, however, the Johnson administration continued Kennedy’s policy. Its main objective was “the replacement of the present government in Cuba by one fully compatible with the goals of the United States.”61 The plans included the utilization of anti-Castro Cuban exiles to provide deniability of U.S. involvement. The CIA continued planning and carrying out acts of sabotage against Cuba. There were those more willing, however, to take another route. For instance, Gordon Chase, a White House advisor to the president, did not rule out that Cas- tro could be convinced of breaking ties with the Soviet Union.62 In 1968 Richard M. Nixon was elected president. His close ties with Cuban ‹gures such as Bebe Rebozo helped refuel the covert war against the Castro regime.63 But increased public condemnation of U.S. military involvement in Vietnam limited these activities. Toward the end of the Nixon administration some U.S. policymakers and elected of‹cials advocated a relaxation of tensions with Cuba. Terrorist acts against governments that had economic relations with the island became more frequent. Doubts about U.S. policy in Cuba grew when covert activities against the island’s government began to have domestic implications in the United States. Among other things the Watergate burglars were Cuban exiles, veterans of covert activities against the Castro regime. Terrorism as a form of activism became ingrained in the political life of the exile community. Having gained control of the Miami media, many businesses, and the electoral arena, hard-line exile forces sought to impose a single, rigid anti-Castro viewpoint, using intimidation and violence to silence their opponents. Ironically, those opposed to the intransigence of the revolutionary leadership ended up creating organizations and a political environment that mirrored the island’s. While continuing a historical tradition of a dual immigrant/exile identity, the postrevolutionary émigré community developed distinct characteristics that, despite its origins in a ch3.qxd 10/11/1999 10:08 AM Page 83

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struggle to restore the democratic course, are rooted in the larger world drama of the cold war. Despite unresolved questions about the place of Cubans in U.S. society, the 1970 U.S. census reported that there were 560,628 Cubans in the United States and that 252,520 lived in Florida. The community was now ‹rmly ensconced in its host country. ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 84

CHAPTER 4 The 1970s: Pluralization, Radicalization, and Homeland

As hopes of returning to Cuba faded, Cuban exiles became more concerned with life in the United States. Exile-related struggles were put on the back burner as more immediate immigrant issues emerged, such as the search for better jobs, education, and housing. Class divisions sharpened, and advocacy groups seeking improved social services emerged, including, for example, the Cuban National Planning Council, a group of Miami social workers and businesspeople formed in the early 1970s. As an organization that provided services to needy exiles, this group de‹ed the prevailing notion that all exiles had made it in the United States. Life in the United States created new needs and interests that could only be resolved, at least in part, by entering the domestic political arena. Although there had always been ideological diversity within the Cuban émigré community, it was not until the 1970s that the political spectrum ‹nally began to re›ect this outwardly.1 Two sharply divided camps emerged: exile oriented (focused on overthrowing the Cuban revolutionary government) and immigrant oriented (focused on improving life in the United States). Those groups that were not preoccupied with the Cuban revolution met with hostility from those that were. Exile leaders felt threatened by organized activities that could be interpreted as an abandonment of the exile cause. For example, in 1974 a group of Cuban exile researchers conducted an extensive needs assessment of Cubans in the United States and concluded that particular sectors, such as the elderly and newly arrived immigrants, were in need of special intervention.2 When their ‹ndings were publicized, they were accused of betraying the community because of their concern with immigrant problems rather than the overthrow of the revolution. Those organizations providing social service to immigrants in some cases even aligned themselves with non-Cuban activists, further inciting groups devoted to the anti-Castro struggle. Agencies working with the elderly joined forces with Miami’s non-Cuban senior citizens to advocate

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quality medical care for their constituencies. A University of Miami group of psychologists, one of the ‹rst to emerge from the ethnic enclave, participated in activities with national Latino social service advocacy organizations.3 Organizations such as the Spanish American League against Dis- crimination (SALAD) dedicated themselves to ‹ghting discrimination, a taboo subject for Cubans. Although their advocacy was moderate compared to the efforts of other civil rights groups, it was controversial within the exile community. To admit that there was discrimination at all was somehow to give the communist Cuban regime ammunition against the United States and a way to ridicule those who had left. Many of the organizations involved in armed action against the Cuban government had disintegrated by this time, but splinter groups remained. Some of these, such as Alpha 66, a group dedicated to the armed struggle against Castro, and Cuban Power, headed by Orlando Bosch, relied on terrorist actions. Bosch’s group developed a strategy called “la guerra por los caminos del mundo” (war through the world’s roads) that internationalized terrorist actions. His aim was to prevent any country or corporation from conducting business with Cuba or from rec- ognizing the Cuban government. Cuban Power bombed the of‹ces of governments and corporations that maintained a relationship with the Cuban government, such as the Mexican Tourist of‹ce in Chicago, which was bombed in 1968. Bosch’s organization reportedly was responsible for over 150 bombings4 before Bosch was jailed for ‹ring a bazooka at a Polish freighter. At Bosch’s trial Ricardo Morales, a former agent in Castro’s secret police and then informant for the FBI, testi‹ed about how he had supplied dynamite and other explosives to Bosch. After leaving jail, Bosch took his ‹ght to the Cuban community, vowing to kill anyone who supported detente with communist countries. Shortly thereafter José Elías de la Torriente, another anti-Castro leader, was assassinated. Among those targeted by extremist groups were people in the exile community who had abandoned the struggle to overthrow the Cuban government or who simply did not give it a high enough priority. In 1975 Luciano Nieves, an advocate of peaceful coexistence with the Cuban government, was assassinated. And Emiliano Milían, a Miami radio commentator who advocated dialogue with Cuba, lost both legs when he triggered a bomb that had been rigged to his car.5 Yet in the 1970s the Cuban émigré community as a whole seemed less concerned with returning to Cuba than with making it in the United States. This reformist tendency continued to grow. Those working in the social service sector did not necessarily advocate normalizing relations with Cuba, but their lack of concern with overthrowing the revolution placed these groups on the more liberal end of the political spectrum ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 86

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MARTÍ

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alongside those who favored completely normalized relations. The very existence of groups serving the needy—evidence that some Cubans faced problems in the United States—posed a challenge to the Cuban Right, which either ignored or denied the social and economic problems some within the community were encountering in the United States. Forced to confront the inef‹ciencies of the United States, some individuals involved in social service organizations also began to consider the possibility that the revolution in their homeland had resulted in gains for the poor. As a rule, the social service movement, including the Cuban émi- gré sector, was not generally concerned with foreign policy. But these sectors were allies in challenging the previously monolithic control over Cuban exile life held by Cuban conservatives. Those advocating normalization of relations disputed the then unquestioned aim of overthrowing the revolution, thereby creating the possibility of new discussion in regard to Cuba. The challenge to the hegemony of the Cuban Right ‹rst became evident in academic circles. One of its earliest organizational manifestations was El Instituto de Estudios Cubanos. The institute, which held its ‹rst meeting in Washington, DC, in the spring of 1969, brought together Cuban émigré scholars who studied Cuba. Many had been members of various Catholic youth organizations that had joined the ‹ght against Batista. Some had been students at la Universidad de Villanueva and had participated in the production of Insula, a journal of politics and culture. The goal of this ‹rst meeting was to allow Cubans of divergent ideologies and generations to share their views of Cuba within a climate of respect and camaraderie.6 Unlike the prevalent Cuban exile scholarship of the late 1960s, the institute encouraged a less antagonistic approach to the Cuban government. In the early 1970s debate began over whether Cubans should engage in dialogue with the government from which so many of them had ›ed. Discussions ‹rst surfaced among competing factions of the opposition, who debated whether or not the covert war was over and, later, whether dialogue with the Cuban government would increase its legitimacy and thus contribute to its irreversibility. Young people seeking some kind of relationship with their homeland entered this debate with a more positive, perhaps more romantic, appraisal of the revolution. Little by little they started to form political organizations of their own.

Radicalization of Young Cuban Émigrés

The “pluralization” of the exile community was especially evident among young people.7 Ironically, as the émigré community at large turned its ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 89

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attention toward the United States, many young Cubans in search of roots, identity, and political alternatives looked to Cuba and to their relationship with other minorities in the United States. Some of the ‹rst political groupings of young Cubans emerged in Washington and Chicago. These groups, composed of students and newly graduated young professionals, wanted to infuse the debate about Cuba with the voice of the younger generation. The Chicago group went on to organize a radio program and developed the skills necessary for a public relations campaign. There was great diversity of political opinion—so much so, in fact, that the group never reached a consensus on its name, informally calling itself La Cosa (The Thing). Eventually, the group split (one faction joined a more radical group forming at the University of Florida in Gainesville, while the other established what became a lucrative public relations and marketing ‹rm in Chicago), yet it was an important ‹rst step, for it legitimized the need of many young Cubans to search for new ways of relating to their homeland. Another organization of young Cubans, Abdala, was interested in providing a social democratic alternative to current Cuban politics. Abdala, a reference to a José Martí poem, initially grouped young Cubans interested in maintaining cultural ties with one another and brought them together through chapters in various cities and on college campuses. Abdala challenged the monolithic hold on the struggle against Castro by exile organizations that had given up their commitment to democracy. The group was highly critical, for instance, of the relationship of certain exile organizations to military dictators such as Augusto Pinochet of Chile.8 Other young Cubans were radicalized in other ways. Confronted with the civil rights and antiwar movements, a signi‹cant number of Cuban students on North American campuses underwent a political conversion that was to have surprising long-term political implications. The ‹rst signs of this movement were in publications such as Nueva Generación and the more politically de‹ned Areíto and Joven Cuba. Joven Cuba, a New York–based progressive magazine published by Cuban émigrés, called on Cubans to become part of the civil rights struggles of the black and Latino communities. It focused on the problematic position of Cubans as a national minority in the United States and stressed the importance of their relationship with other Latinos. Areíto, ‹rst published in Miami, was aimed instead at building bridges between Cubans in the United States and Cuba. The ‹rst few issues of Areíto addressed the identity of Cuban youth while focusing on the exile’s relationship with their homeland. In the ‹nal issues of the ‹rst generation of Areíto its concerns had expanded to include a Latin American perspective. Nuevos Rumbos, published by a student group at the University of Florida in Gainesville, was closer to Areíto’s ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 90

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perspective on national identity but not on its stance toward Cuba. Another group, Juventud Cubana Socialista (Cuban Socialist Youths), emerged in Puerto Rico in 1972.9 At the time there was no way for Cubans to return to the island, even as tourists. Travel to Cuba was prohibited by both the United States and Cuba. But young Cubans began to lobby Cuban government of‹cials at the United Nations. Some even traveled to Mexico and Europe in efforts to meet with Cuban Embassy of‹cials in those countries. After intense lobbying efforts, the Cuban government granted a small number of visas to young Cuban émigrés who worked with Areíto and Joven Cuba. As a result, during the 1970s the Cuban government allowed a select number of Cuban exiles to visit the island. The Cuban government ‹rst exempted from travel restrictions those who had emigrated prior to the 1959 revolution. These Cubans, many of whom were in fact sympathetic to the revolution, until then had been lumped together with the early 1960s émigrés. In the mid-1970s the Cuban government began to allow Cubans who were under eighteen years of age at the time of the revolution to visit the island. Entry permits were granted for a small number at a time. These young Cubans were told by their island hosts to tell people that they were Puerto Rican rather than Cuban; given the politicization of emigration, government of‹cials feared a backlash against those returning. They were also leery that the process of returning might serve as a means for the Cuban right to in‹ltrate the island. Yet the visits in›uenced the attitude Cuban of‹cials had of those who had left, and, ‹nally, in 1977 the Cuban government shifted its policy and agreed to grant Areíto entry visas for a larger group visit. The Areíto group was composed of middle-class Cubans who had come to the United States when they were young. They were raised in many different parts of the United States but shared a common longing to return to Cuba. Some worked with various publications, and others were scholars. Most faced stiff opposition from their parents for wanting to return to Cuba. Generational con›ict had been typical of Cuban families. Adapting to a new culture was not easy, nor was leaving behind a way of life, family, personal history, and dreams. As such, Cuban families suffered cultural clashes typical of other immigrant groups. Parents insisted that their children submit to the same cultural practices they had followed on the island, such as dating only with chaperons. These clashes were especially harsh as they unfolded at a time of cultural revolution in the United States. In many ways social upheaval in the 1960s and 1970s legitimized young Cubans’ struggle against their parents. In this context Cuban parents seemingly had little to offer. They also were caught in a contradiction: on the one ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 91

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hand, parents wanted their children to follow “Cuban ways,” while on the other hand they opposed their children’s desire to return to Cuba. The desire of the “bridge generation” (those born in Cuba but raised in the United States) to return to their homeland distinguished the Cuban experience from that of other immigrant groups: instead of leading children away from the homeland, “Americanization” in the case of Cuban exiles was the catalyst through which young people were compelled to go home. In part the desire to return was about recovering a childhood and family lost to displacement, but it was also a statement about the inability of U.S. society to accept fully émigrés from Latin America. Thus, social and political change in the United States facilitated the return. By the mid-1970s tensions between the two countries had eased, and congressional representatives began to question the utility of the U.S. embargo against Cuba. Some even traveled to the island: in 1974 Senators Claiborne Pell and Jacob Javitz visited Cuba, and in 1975 Representative Charles Whalen, a Republican from Ohio, became the ‹rst member of the House of Representatives to travel there. These legislators strongly felt that the time had come to normalize relations with Cuba. U.S. policy, they believed, was hurting the United States by making it appear isolated and unable to negotiate settlements.10 Cuban-American Democrats in cities such as New York, Chicago, and Boston were urging a new approach to U.S.-Cuban relations, while international pressure was mounting for warmer relations. In 1975 the Organization of American States (OAS) voted to lift its embargo of the island. Henry Kissinger, then secretary of state, entered into secret talks with Cuba aimed at further collaboration between the countries on air piracy and immigration. But Cuba’s activism in foreign policy ventures in Angola and Ethiopia resulted in the cancellation of these talks. During the Carter presidency U.S. foreign policy again experienced a signi‹cant change in direction. The most memorable international incident of the Carter years was the Iranian hostage crisis, but a more funda- mental trait of the administration was Carter’s campaign to inject humanitarian concerns into foreign policy. This new vision—recognition by a U.S. president of the need for reconciliation and dialogue—had marked effects on speci‹c foreign policies, especially those aimed at Cuba and Latin America.11 Early in his administration Carter became the ‹rst U.S. president since the revolution to make peace overtures to the Cuban government. After a series of talks both governments agreed to open “interests sections”—quasi-embassies hosted by third countries. A new type of diplomatic arrangement was reached whereby the United States established an interests section in the Swiss embassy in Havana, while Cuba opened one ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 92

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in the Czech embassy in Washington, DC. Both were housed in what had been their respective embassies prior to the original severing of diplomatic ties. Travel to Cuba was permitted for the ‹rst time in almost twenty years, and some embargo restrictions against Cuba (constituting about 120 federal regulations) were relaxed. Although full diplomatic relations were not established, signals of a more peaceful relationship were clear. Carter’s domestic policies also contributed to strengthening the position of reformers within the Cuban community. Carter increased Latino visibility in government posts, especially that of the traditionally Democ- ratic Mexican community in the Southwest. For example, Lionel Castillo, a Mexican-American from Texas, was named commissioner of Immigra- tion and Naturalization Services. Reform-minded Cubans such as Alfredo Duran and Bernardo Benes—both veterans of the war against Castro— were especially active in Florida’s state Democratic Party. Although maintaining an anti-Castro posture themselves, they were willing to tolerate Cuban émigrés who favored coexistence with the island government.12 And in Washington the Carter administration developed relations with the Cuban National Planning Council, a group of moderate Cuban-Ameri- cans who advocated providing more social services for the exile community. Government grants were given to agencies interested in conducting an assessment of such needs. The ›exibility of Carter’s policies toward Latin America and Latinos in the United States spawned a climate in which the more reformist elements in the Cuban community, and the Latino community in general, could organize and exert in›uence on governmental policies. The Cuban government responded in kind: one of its conciliatory actions was to allow visits of exiles to their homeland.

Homeland Encounters

First to be granted reentry was the Areíto group. Little by little its numbers expanded, and by 1977 the Cuban government gave the group ‹fty- ‹ve permits for a three-week tour of the island. Fear of reprisal from extremist exile groups required that the application and selection process be conducted in secret. Applicants had to be approved both by the group and by the Cuban Ministry of the Interior, which was charged with insuring that the returning exiles were not in‹ltrators.13 Once on the island the visit by these young Cubans had a tremendous impact on the government and the people of Cuba, who previously had been unwilling to communi- cate with Cubans who had left.14 Prior to the visit Cubans on the island accepted the myth that everyone who left was an enemy of the revolution. Just as Cubans in the United States had broken with the island, Cubans on ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 93

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the island severed ties with those who had left. Filling the void were distorted images, a sense of loss, and seemingly no hope of ever healing the rift. But, when the youth who had left Cuba (or who had been taken out during the years of ›ight) returned, a sense of national recovery permeated their welcome. The group, traveling as the Antonio Maceo Brigade, was met with open arms and much emotion. Unlike earlier visits, this tour was covered extensively on Cuban television, which broadcast images of brigade members visiting relatives they hadn’t seen in twenty years, working with construction crews building apartments, touring the island, danc- ing, and singing until dawn. The group met with high government of‹cials, including Armando Hart, the minister of culture, who cried as he spoke of his brother’s sons who had been sent to the United States by their mother after their father was tortured and killed during the revolution. At the meeting Andres Gómez, a brigade member from Miami, asked if he and others could return to the island, not just for a visit but to live. The answer to this plea came from Fidel Castro, who, though outwardly moved by the emotion of ‹fty-‹ve young Cubans returning home, felt that the country would be better served if they returned to their U.S. communities to work on behalf of the revolution—to divide and conquer the exile community through its sons and daughters. The brigade’s visit had a profound impact on the island. The trip became the basis for a documentary by Jesús Díaz, 55 Hermanos, which drew record crowds of viewers in Cuba. Scenes of young exiles returning to their childhood rooftop playgrounds and neighborhoods warmed the hearts of a public that until then had been publicly encouraged to despise those who had left. The documentary closed with a communiqué promising the return of all those children who had been taken out of Cuba by their parents. Audiences left the theaters crying. On subsequent trips brigade members would be stopped on the streets and embraced. In addition, the island-based Casa de las Américas published the group’s story in Contra Viento y Marea.15 Upon returning to the United States, the initial group decided to expand the Antonio Maceo Brigade.16 In order to join one must have left Cuba because of a parental decision, refrained from participating in counterrevolutionary activities, opposed the U.S. economic blockade of the island, and supported normalized relations. Above all, the brigade defended the right of all Cubans to travel to the island in order to become reacquainted with the new Cuba and de‹ne their relationship to the homeland. The group was named after Antonio Maceo, the mulatto general of the Cuban War of Independence, because “of our desire to maintain a con- ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 94

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tinuity with the history of our homeland . . . our rebellion against the foreign decisions and against the historical circumstances which uprooted us from our homeland . . . and our protests against the blockade which impedes our need to get to know the Cuban reality.”17 Within a year of the ‹rst trip to Cuba more than three hundred young Cubans had signed up to join the brigade’s second contingent, myself included. Most were middle-class students united by their desire to return to their homeland. But this second group was not as politically homogeneous as the ‹rst group had been. I became a coordinator of the brigade and, along with the other coordinators, resisted demands by Cuban bureaucrats who wanted participants to pass an ideological litmus test. Because of the group’s diversity, island organizers tightened the program in order to minimize contact between the brigade and the island’s residents. Many brigade members had been part of the counterculture movement in the United States. We were advocates of gay rights and freedom of speech. Many of us were paci‹sts. Many still experimented with soft drugs. These beliefs and actions were punishable crimes in Cuba. Thus, contact between island youth and brigade members was discouraged. Nonetheless, the brigade trips paved the way for future relations between the Cuban government and Cuban communities abroad. Both in Cuba and in the United States the myth of a monolithic Cuban community had been shattered, along with the myth of no return.18 But the process of building a relationship with Cuba was not without con›ict and violence.

“El Diálogo” and Its Aftermath

In September 1978 Castro announced that he would hold talks with representatives of the Cuban communities abroad.19 Numerous factors facilitated “the Dialogue,” as these discussions were called. The Carter years marked a detente between the United States and Cuba. The United States had lifted its ban on travel to Cuba, imposed as part of the blockade implemented in 1961. The Cuban and U.S. governments had traded interests sections as a step toward reestablishing full diplomatic relations. Also, the Cuban revolutionary government had consolidated its power and was ‹nally in a secure enough position to address those who had left the country. Furthermore, there were Cubans abroad who were ready to talk to the Castro government.20 These policy changes also ful‹lled an ideological function for the revolution. The Cuban government justi‹ed its change of position by acknowledging that the United States was no longer using Cuban émigrés to perform acts of terrorism against the island. It also served to shatter the ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 95

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image of a Cuban community unwilling to recognize or sustain talks with the Cuban government.21 The rapprochement gave the revolution ideological ammunition because the Cuban government could now demonstrate not only that there were deep divisions in the exile community regarding relations with homeland but that the revolution’s existence was recognized, and hence legitimized, by exiles willing to negotiate with government representatives. In addition, Cuban émigrés advocating dialogue with Cuba gave the Cuban state an inside political track to U.S. policymakers—a voice from within the community calling for normalization of relations. The Dialogue, which was held over two sessions in November and December 1978, brought 140 Cubans from abroad to Havana. This was my ‹rst return trip. U.S. participants boarded a Cuban airline in Atlanta. From the outset we sensed that we were involved in a historic process. Its personal signi‹cance was tied to my return to Cuba, but it also had a broader meaning for the exile community as a whole. I met Cubans from throughout the United States who represented a broad range of political factions (even former Bay of Pigs prisoners joined in the Dia- logue) and varying social backgrounds. Nuns, priests, and businesspeople all boarded the Cubana plane that took us to Cuba. The formal agenda, consented to at the ‹rst meeting, included the release of political prisoners, permission for those prisoners and their families to leave Cuba, the reuni‹cation of divided families, and the right of Cubans living abroad to visit their relatives on the island. The Antonio Maceo Brigade presented the Cuban government with a more radical agenda than that agreed to by the overall group. This included the right of repatriation, the right to study in Cuba, the creation of an institute within the Cuban government to represent the interests of Cubans abroad, the opportunity to participate in social and professional organizations within Cuba, and the establishment of cultural and professional exchanges between Cubans on the island and abroad. We also supported the plea by a group of former political prisoners that the Cuban government release its female political prisoners.22 Other individuals and groups added suggestions throughout the process. The talks resulted in the following agreements: the release of three thousand political prisoners and permission for current and former prisoners and their families to emigrate; permission for those with family in the United States to leave; and permission for Cubans living abroad to visit the island.23 In the ‹rst stage these visits were described by Fidel Cas- tro as visits by “tourist” groups.24 Still, at the time such agreements were extraordinary. Prior to the Dialogue, not only were those who left considered traitors, but severe penalties were imposed against those leaving without government permission. Persons requesting such permission automat- ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 96

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ically lost jobs and other bene‹ts. The stigma for family members remaining on the island was dif‹cult to overcome. Yet in 1978 the Cuban government negotiated an opening with Cubans who had left, including many who had participated in military actions against Cuba. This marked a piv- otal, historic moment. What most of us did not know at the time was that the Cuban government had already reached these agreements with the U.S. government. In fact, many of us did not ‹nd this out until the story was published in Wayne Smith’s personal memoirs ten years later.25 For months Bernardo Benes, a former anti-Batista ‹ghter who later opposed Castro, had been negotiating these issues with Fidel Castro and others in his government as well as with State Department of‹cials. The issues brought to the table included, among other things, the release of political prisoners, reuni‹cation of families, and the establishment of interests sections.26 It seemed clear that Cuban of‹cials desired a reestablishment of relations with the United States but were unwilling to discontinue their support for other armed movements throughout the world. For the Cuban government the exile community would become an arena in which they could attempt to manipulate Washington. Implementing the Dialogue agreements proved more dif‹cult than reaching them. The release of political prisoners was to take place with the full cooperation of the United States. And, while the release proceeded as promised, the processing of visas for emigration to the United States was very slow. In January 1979 the Cuban government began releasing four hundred political prisoners each month and continued at this pace for almost a year. The United States accepted all the jailed prisoners and their families who wanted to emigrate but refused to grant visas to former political prisoners and their families—they were told to apply through the reg- ular Latin America immigration quota. For most people this represented a three- to eight-year wait. The Cuban leadership publicly toyed with another Camarioca solution—opening a single port for those who wanted to leave the country—if the United States did not grant the promised visas. The visa slowdown resulted in part from changes in U.S. immigration regulations. In 1968 Latin America had been assigned a quota of immigrants—one from which, during the early 1970s, Cubans were exempt. U.S. immigration of‹cials now wanted Cubans included. Grif‹n Bell, the U.S. attorney general at the time, did not support admitting large numbers of Cubans. State Department of‹cials, in contrast, insisted on an open- door policy. The result was a temporary impasse. And, once again, U.S. policy toward Cuba fell victim to Washington’s bureaucratic turf wars.27 Eventually, the United States succumbed to pressure from former Cuban ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 97

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political prisoners who, while not supporters of the Dialogue (they considered speaking to the Cuban government an act of treason), felt strongly that the United States should admit former soldiers who had fought against Castro. They lobbied the White House, and the United States ‹nally granted visas to all political prisoners and their families. The former political prisoners, however, would have to wait their turn in the immigration quota line. It was through this program that well-known political prisoners such as Huber Matos, Eloy Gutiérrez Menoyo, and Ramón and Polita Grau were released. Another agreement between the Cuban government and Cubans abroad resulted in more than 120,000 Cubans visiting the island in a year. At ‹rst traditional exile groups tried to convince people not to visit their relatives. Eventually, they gave in and instead encouraged exiles visiting relatives to help them gather intelligence information about life in Cuba, economic conditions, and military maneuvers.28 It became clear that, while Cubans abroad had broken with the revolution, they were still interested in visiting their families and homeland. Committees to defend and implement the accords of the Dialogue sprang up throughout the United States and in Puerto Rico, Venezuela, Mexico, and Spain.29 Much to the chagrin of Dialogue organizers and the pro-reconciliation groups that emerged during this period, Cuban visitors to the island often returned to their host country more embittered than they had been before the trip. The visitors felt exploited. Many believed that the Cuban government was taking advantage of their desire to see relatives by charg- ing outrageous prices (at one point a weeklong visit from Miami cost $1,500 even if the traveler stayed with relatives, compared to trips to other Caribbean islands that at the time cost around $350). Clearly, the Cuban government viewed visits by Cuban exiles as a source of foreign exchange. Special stores were opened at which visitors could pay top dollar for consumer goods in short supply. The corruption visitors encountered on the island required them to hand out still more money, which only antago- nized them further. Contrary to the explicit hopes of those organizing the exchange, these trips did not engender goodwill; rather, they contributed to further separating those abroad from those on the island. Although the Dialogue was conceived with speci‹c ideological and political aims, the accords were not implemented in a fashion that was in keeping with these goals. The problem can be traced in part to the nature of the decision to open Cuba’s doors to its exile community; this decision was made by the upper echelons of the Communist Party and was never fully discussed or debated within the government, much less by the general public.30 Only days before the Dialogue, party militants in Havana were ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 98

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invited to a meeting to hear Castro’s rationale for changing positions toward those who, until then, had been considered mortal enemies of the revolution. Consequently, the political and ideological aspects of the policy were lost amid a bureaucracy whose purpose it was to bring in hard currency. The exile community acquired a new, more cynical function for the Cuban state as a bearer of hard currency. Irí Abrantes Fernández, at the time vice-minister of the Ministry of the Interior, and Ricardo Alascoª, the minister of Foreign Relations, sent consulates new travel regulations that provided that Cuban exiles travel in “tourist” groups. Havatas, a Cuban state corporation based in Panama, was the only agency authorized to sell plane tickets and transmit the paperwork.31 The visitors also had an important effect on the Cuban population. Many island residents objected to the uneven distribution of consumer products between those who had relatives in other countries who could purchase these items on their behalf and those who did not. While there was discontent among Cubans before the 1979 visits, many blamed the exiles’ visits for the increasing number of people wanting to leave the country, culminating in the dramatic exodus of more than 120,000 Cubans through the port of Mariel. The exile community, from 1977 to 1979, had been cast momentarily in a positive light. Fidel Castro had gone so far as to urge people not to use the derogatory term gusano, suggesting instead that they refer to the exiles as comunidad (community); colloquially, Cubans had already started to use the term mariposas, meaning “butter›ies,” or transformed gusanos. But beginning in 1980 Cubans returned to viewing the Cuban community abroad in its previous role as saboteur of the revolution. Still, the willingness of the U.S. and Cuban governments to negotiate during and after the Dialogue changed the political climate between the two countries and, consequently, opened a new political space within the Cuban exile community. U.S. Cuban organizations that called for normalizing relations between the two countries found that their demands were now more politically acceptable. As a result, organizations that aimed to reestablish relations with the island ›ourished.32 The ‹rst organization that emerged from the Dialogue was the Miami-based Committee of 75. Headed by Albor Ruíz, a member of the Areíto editorial board, the committee was organized to monitor the implementation of the Dialogue accords in the United States and Cuba. It concentrated initially on aiding in the processing of Cuban political prisoners who wanted to come to the United States by procuring lists of released prisoners from the Cuban interests section in Washington and, in turn, lobbying the U.S. government to process visas for them. The committee ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 99

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also helped organize ›ights for prisoners coming to the United States. It kept Dialogue participants informed through a monthly newsletter and held periodic press conferences. Other organizations, such as El Grupo de Reuni‹cación Familiar, sought to bring together divided families.33 The increased contact between Cuba and the United States gave rise to organizations that provided services to the Cuban community in relation to the island. The most notable of these were the travel agencies that chartered ›ights from the United States to Cuba. The livelihood of these travel agencies depended on their relationship to the Cuban government— without its permission they could not do business with Cuba. Yet they also operated within the United States and, as such, had to organize their business within the U.S. legal framework. Since the embargo was not lifted during the Carter administration, direct commercial ›ights were prohibited, so only private agencies could provide services to people returning for family visits. Visitors were forced to buy land and air packages. Given the demand, there was a long waiting list, and charter operators often charged an extra fee for moving people up the list. Other services developed, including agencies that forwarded care packages to Cuba and pharmacies that sent medicine. Again, the charges were exorbitant, since these business had a near monopoly on the provision of service. And, like the travel agencies, these businesses had to be sanctioned by the Cuban government before they could operate. If opposition to the revolution had engendered its own economy in the exile community, so did closer relations. Both, however, would be put out of business if there was change in Cuba. Other Cubans in the United States focused on advocating changes in U.S. policy toward Cuba, concentrating their efforts on organizing Wash- ington-based groups that would lobby U.S. of‹cials to lift the economic embargo on the island. One such group was the Cuban-American Com- mittee (CAC). Composed of a cross-section of professionals, the CAC was the ‹rst of‹cial Cuban-American research and education group in Wash- ington. It circulated petitions, met with political representatives, and held press conferences. In 1979 the committee presented the State Department with a petition signed by more than ten thousand Cubans requesting a speedy normalization of relations between the United States and Cuba. And, unlike political organizations of the past, the Cuban-American Com- mittee played “políticas a la Americana” by taking on the U.S. political system on its own terms. Still other organizations concentrated on academic and cultural exchanges between Cubans in the United States and those on the island. Areíto moved in a more intellectual direction and became involved in sponsoring exchanges between academics. An organization dedicated to ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 100

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cultural exchanges, El Círculo de Cultura Cubana, was established in New York.34 It sponsored conferences in the United States and Cuba and took groups of Cuban exile artists to the island. Many organizations promoting some form of exchange emerged within the U.S. Cuban exile community during this period. No doubt they surfaced, at least in part, because a new generation had come of age and felt strongly the need to maintain a link to the homeland. The increased contact with Cuba also spurred professional and cultural interest among Cubans inside and outside of Cuba. For a time the trend toward rapprochement became important outside the youth sector that had initially prompted it,35 although its articulation into a broader movement was tempered both by the political climate in Cuba and by terrorism within the Cuban community abroad.

Backlash: Terrorism and Fighting Back

Although many Cubans wanted to visit the island, this sentiment did not necessarily translate into support for normalized relations with Cuba—a stance that was perceived as a vote of support for the Castro government. Still, groups that continued their quest to overthrow the revolution by violent means grew increasingly isolated. Their aim of invasion and return to the island—a promise extended relentlessly since the revolution’s beginning and ‹nanced partially through community fund-raising efforts— became less realistic and more desperate and was recognized as such by most Cuban exiles. These groups reacted violently to the new developments. Their ‹rst attack was on Dialogue participants. In 1979 Omega 7, one of the most active terrorist organizations, claimed credit for more than twenty bombings aimed at the homes and business of Dialogue members.36 Although Omega 7’s headquarters was reportedly in New Jersey,37 the organization later moved into south Florida.38 Communiqués were sent to the Miami of‹ces of the Associated Press and United Press International vowing that any Cuban who traveled to Cuba would be killed. In April 1979 Omega 7 claimed credit for the assassination of Carlos Muñiz Varela, a twenty-six-year old member of the Antonio Maceo Brigade who coordinated the Puerto Rican of‹ces of Via- jes Varaderos, an agency that arranged travel to Cuba. Members of the Antonio Maceo Brigade lived in constant fear. We were afraid that the events we sponsored would be bombed. Our names appeared in press communiqués under the headline “Castro’s Agents,” or we were called díalogueros, a term that came to have negative connotations.39 The young organization turned inward. Security measures were instituted. The FBI’s ‹rst response to a call to investigate Muñiz’s murder ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 101

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was to assert that Puerto Rico was outside its jurisdiction. There was speculation that individuals in the Puerto Rican government had provided support to the terrorist groups.40 In contrast the Cuban government, eager to gather information about its enemies, provided a safe haven for young exiles. In November 1979, in Union City, New Jersey, terrorists killed Eulalio Negrin, another Dialogue member.41 His killers were never found. In response to terrorist acts, more open-minded Cuban exiles launched a national campaign against terrorism, demonstrating that they had learned how to use the U.S. political system.42 A national task force was organized that included the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), the World Council of Churches, the National Lawyers’ Guild, the Confer- ence of Black Lawyers, and the Committee of 75. The task force successfully lobbied several congressmen to establish special congressional hearings on Cuban exile right-wing terrorism, although ultimately these were more symbolic than effective in halting criminal acts or in pushing the FBI to investigate them. Progressive Cubans outside Miami enjoyed better relations with elected of‹cials than those within Miami. One exile group in Boston worked with State Representative Mel King to introduce a resolution in the Massachusetts House of Commons condemning terrorism.43 The task force also succeeded in securing statements by Eduardo Boza Masvidal and Agustin Roman, the clergy that had blessed the Bay of Pigs invasion, who now pleaded with the community “to cease terrorism and learn to live with democratic ways.”44 Newark’s archbishop did the same.45 The task force was instrumental in ensuring that Rutgers University’s Constitu- tional Legal Clinic documented cases of intimidation and assassination.46 The Rutgers Clinic project was a hotline of sorts to which Dialogue participants and others could report incidents. This was particularly important to the victims of intimidation and terrorism, as most law enforcement agencies were perceived as sympathetic to right-wing exiles. As a result of the combined effort of lawyers and progressive Cuban exiles, the White House eventually established a special FBI task force and named Omega 7 the most dangerous terrorist group in the United States. But it was another two years before the FBI would make its ‹rst arrests of Omega 7 members (see table 6). 47 The political legitimacy gained by those calling for a rapprochement with the revolution continued to shift the political middle ground in the Cuban community. Supporters of the Dialogue successfully organized a base of support among émigrés. The demand to normalize relations with Cuba implied the recognition that there was a government with which Cuban exiles had to negotiate. It further acknowledged that Cubans were ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 102

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in the United States to stay. As the political spectrum of the community had expanded, organizations serving as advocates for the needs of émigrés were no longer as susceptible to charges that they were abandoning the cause of toppling the Cuban government. Eventually, they ceased to be targets of the Right.

Changing the Rules of the Game: “Política a la Americana”

Within this expanded political spectrum new issues emerged. For example, the Cuban émigré community became a vocal supporter of bilingual programs in Dade County, Florida, a clear departure from mainstream local Anglo opinions that were generally antagonistic to teaching anything other than English to schoolchildren. This issue, along with Cuban support for bilingual voting materials, aligned Cubans with other Latinos throughout the United States. Furthermore, an unprecedented number of Cubans became naturalized U.S. citizens, a necessary requirement for voting. Thus, when the Democratic Party formed a caucus of Hispanic-Amer- ican Democrats in 1979,48 with the goal of unifying Latinos of different national origin under a single banner, traditional Cuban-American Democrats and representatives from the Dialogue movement played a key role. By 1976 most Cuban voters in Dade County were registered Demo-

TABLE 6. Partial List of Bombings by Cuban Émigré Terrorists, 1973–80 Year Total Number of Attempts Organizational Responsibility 1973 9 FLNC, CLN, GSC, DR, unknown 1974 26 FLNC, Zero, Alpha 66, unknown, CP 1975 11 FLNC, unknown 1976 41 CORU, FLNC, CNM, Omega 7 1977 5 unknown 1978 10 CORU, Omega 7, unknown 1979 10 CORU, Omega 7 1980 4 Omega 7, unknown Source: Elizabeth Schneidner, “The Basis and Need for a Coordinated Federal and State Investigation and Prosecution of Cuban Exile Terrorism” (Rutgers Law School, Constitu- tional Litigation Clinic, May 1979). Coded by Carlos Forment, “Caribbean Geopolitics and Foreign State Sponsored Social Movements: The Case of Cuban Exile Militancy in Miren Uriarte-Gaston and Jorge Cañas Martinez, Cubans in the United States (Center for the Study of the Cuban Community, Boston: MA, 1984). ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 103

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crats. No longer did conservative Cubans monopolize connections with the formal political structures. Political developments in the Cuban exile community were accompanied by parallel ideological currents. Especially signi‹cant was the emergence of a new self-de‹nition that did not rely solely on the identity of exile. A more encompassing notion of the “Cuban community” was used with greater frequency as exiles felt that they could return to their homeland.49 In some sectors the rede‹nition of self also included a conception of Cuban émigrés as a minority group within the United States. The impact of abated tensions between the United States and Cuba on the process of political pluralization in the Cuban exile community cannot be underestimated. As part of a new human rights strategy toward Latin America, the Carter administration’s willingness to explore the development of relations with Cuba created the political space for those Cuban-Americans who had been lobbying both governments to establish relations. Although the move toward rapprochement with the Cuban revolution already had begun in the Cuban community, it was not consolidated until relations between Cuba and the United States became a political probability. More relaxed relations between Washington and Havana allowed the Cuban government to feel that it was not under direct siege and that it therefore could open political space in Cuba as well. Thus, signi‹cant changes in economic and political policies—including an unprecedented dialogue with the Cuban community outside of Cuba—resulted from the easing of tensions across the Florida Straits. For Cuban émigrés Cuba—the homeland—continued to be at the center of political debate and life. Those promoting a better relationship found sympathetic ears in Washington, although even under these circumstances Cuban exiles continued to be pawns in the larger geopolitical game. But for the community new forms of political participation emerged that were related to the status of Cubans as U.S. citizens and residents. Political action within the United States now consisted of more than simply being used as pawns by underground political organizations; the issue of Cuba was taken up by registered lobbyists organized in Washington. This normalization spawned new political interests and activities. As homeland concerns were addressed, other issues emerged within the Cuban exile community agenda. But the prospect of reconciliation with the Cuban government also provoked the ire of extremist groups, and terrorism against supporters of rapprochement increased by alarming proportions. By now, however, the Cuban exile community’s response to terrorism was being routed through ch4.qxd 10/11/1999 10:10 AM Page 104

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mainstream political channels. Perhaps the most signi‹cant political development in the 1970s was the use of electoral and pressure group methods for political participation by Cuban exile progressives. This changed the rules of politics in the exile community. And, as these activities proved effective, they set a new standard for conducting the political business of the Cuban exile community. ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 105

CHAPTER 5 The 1980s: Entering Mainstream Politics

The rapprochement between the exile community and the Cuban government was brief. A year after the government had authorized community visits to the island the doors began to close. The Cuba issue again found its way into U.S. presidential campaign politics. Ronald Reagan, the Repub- lican nominee, hammered away at Jimmy Carter’s foreign policy failures as the Cuban government once again opened a port on the island to rid itself of its discontents. In the next months over 120,000 Cubans were transported to the United States. In November 1980 Reagan was elected president on a platform that included a “get tough with Cuba” provision as well as the promotion of conservative exiles to government positions.

Dialogue Strained

For Havana the 1980s began when a small group of Cubans shot and killed a Cuban guard while trying to enter the Peruvian embassy in Mira- mar, an upscale Havana neighborhood. The Peruvian government refused to turn the group over to Cuban authorities and, instead, granted its members asylum. In retaliation Cuba announced that anyone wishing to leave the country could do so via Peru. Within a few days more than 10,000 Cubans jammed the compounds of the embassy. The Cuban government was caught by surprise. There had been growing discontent on the island since the visits by more than 100,000 Cuban émigrés the previous year. Moreover, although the process was slow and without guarantees, it seemed as though for the ‹rst time in years there was real hope for those who wanted to emigrate to the United States. Nonetheless, the Cuban government underestimated the depth of discontent among much of the population. Overwhelmed, authorities ‹nally announced that those outside the island wishing to pick up relatives or friends who wanted to leave Cuba could do so at Mariel, a small port on the outskirts of Havana. (The port of Mariel was near where Ernest Hemingway made his home in the 1950s.) Hundreds of sailboats were immediately launched from Florida to Cuba. Cubans wanting to leave were asked to complete a questionnaire and were

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then issued exit permits. Those who identi‹ed themselves as homosexuals or prostitutes were processed ‹rst. The government mobilized the Committees in Defense of the Revolu- tion to organize rallies of “repudiation” at the homes and workplaces of those planning to leave the country. On May 1, 1980, for example, more than one million people rallied at the Plaza de la Revolución. The rally was called “la Marcha del Pueblo Combatiente” (March of the Fighting Peo- ple), in honor of those who were staying and in condemnation of those leaving. Those who refused to participate were denounced as ideologically weak. Slogans and chants depicted those who had applied to leave as escoria, or “scum.” Old wounds were reopened as the weighty decision to leave or stay was again used to mobilize support for the government. The Mariel emigration profoundly affected Cuba’s policies toward its community abroad. In search of an explanation for why so many people wanted to leave the island, the government used the Cuban community abroad as a convenient scapegoat. In the previous year more than 100,000 émigrés had returned to visit relatives. Most had come bearing gifts of refrigerators, fans, sewing machines, clothing, and food items such as canned hams and coffee bought mostly at Cuban government–owned stores. The visits disproved of‹cial government propaganda claiming that life in the United States was hard, poverty prevailed, and crime lurked on every street corner. Reportedly, even Fidel Castro was surprised at the real wealth and accomplishments of exiles in Miami.1 When relatives returned to Cuba with gifts and consumer goods unattainable for the average island resident, emigration became more desirable. Ironically, the same community abroad that had been encouraged by Cuban of‹cials to bring cash and gifts now became the culprit for explaining island residents’ desire for consumer goods. But the community visits in and of themselves were not the only factor that provoked such an unexpected mass exodus. They were merely the catalyst that uncovered deep-seated, generalized discontent with the revolutionary government and the economic situation on the island. While socialist policies provided all Cubans with basic education and health care, consumer goods were lacking. Work was not appealing because there was nothing to buy. Many Cubans simply did not show up at their jobs, and those who did were often unproductive. With visitors bringing in consumer goods and dollars, the Cuban black market surged. Government stores had only a very limited stock of items such as clothing and shoes. On the black market, however, Cubans could buy jeans, shoes, and other items not available in government stores. Before the Cuban exile visits diplomats and foreign students, mostly from Eastern European and African nations, supplied the black market. ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 109

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After the visits Cubans with relatives abroad received not only gifts but also money with which to buy other goods. Those who did not have relatives abroad or who had severed ties with their exile relatives because they were loyal to the Communist Party resented the sudden shift in policy toward those who had previously been considered traitors to the revolution. State corruption also contributed to the unrest. Government of‹cials who traveled abroad and had access to government stores often had consumer items not available to the general population. And, while the differences between the haves and have-nots were not as great in Cuba as in the United States, the public rhetoric of socialism promised equality in the economic realm. As a result, the perquisites of of‹ce and rewards for political loyalty added to the crisis of legitimacy for the government. Another source of social tension came from released political prisoners anxious to leave the country. While the United States dragged its feet in processing their visa applications, their status as former prisoners prevented them from getting jobs in Cuba, so they waited, idle and frustrated. After Mariel the Cuban government renewed its rhetoric against those who had left, updating the previous epithet of gusano with the newer term of escoria.2 The pathos of these insults revealed the great embarrass- ment Mariel had caused the Cuban government: Instead of the old bour- geoisie and middle-class Cubans afraid of losing their status and privilege, those who exited through Mariel included many young men and women from class backgrounds that the revolution supposedly had aimed to help. Many had been educated in other socialist countries such as Hungary and Czechoslovakia. Government of‹cials explained that, even in socialist systems, there was underdevelopment and the existence of a lumpen prole- tariat.3 These were the beginnings of an exclusively economic explanation for discontent. The immediate effect of this ideological campaign was to reduce the number of visits allowed to Cuban exiles. New restrictions were accompanied by a dramatic increase in the price of the trips, essentially to make up for lost revenues from the lower number of ›ights and reentry permits granted. A one-week trip from Miami to Havana cost over ‹fteen hundred dollars, in addition to the price of passports and other documents and fees. Reentry permits were granted only if the traveler bought a tourist package that included a hotel room even if the traveler planned to stay with relatives. Because U.S. travel agencies needed Cuban government cooperation in order to facilitate travel to the island, Cuban of‹cials maintained complete control over business terms. Initially, some half-dozen travel agencies were authorized to do business with Cuba, but by the mid-1980s only three ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 110

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were in operation: Marazul Charters in New York and Miami and ABC and CBT Charters in Miami. Each had an exclusive contract with a bureaucratic faction in the Cuban government. Other businesses emerged as a result of the movement of people in and out of Cuba. One Ministry of the Interior of‹ce, Interconsult, was established solely to administer a program to sell visas to relatives abroad. The price ranged from two thousand to ‹fty thousand dollars, depending on how long the person was willing to wait. Interconsult also offered a service through which non-Cubans could pay to marry Cuban nationals and bring them to the United States or other countries and in turn receive a fee from the person who wanted to leave.4 A Cuban national could not leave the country without an exit permit from the government, and in order to secure this a valid visa from another country was required. As a result, the black market sale of visas and exit permits ›ourished. For example, Cuban nationals could buy a Panaman- ian visa with which they could then apply for a Cuban exit permit. Pana- manian and Cuban government of‹cials were involved in these transactions; often the ‹nancial arm of such operations was run out of Miami by private intermediaries. Special accounts were opened in Miami banks in which exiles could deposit down payments for relatives they wanted to bring permanently to the United States. Several families made these deposits, yet their relatives on the island failed to secure the necessary travel documents. So, banks adopted a special mechanism of freezing the deposits until the person reached the United States. The operations were so sophisticated that different services were offered at varying prices, depending on how quickly one wanted to be transported to the United States. For twenty thousand dollars a Cuban resident could be in Miami in three days. Intermediaries, whether in travel agencies or in banks, would add on fees of their own. In all, the “policy toward the community” became an incredibly lucrative business for the various actors involved, including the Cuban government, Cuban exiles, and Panamanian of‹cials. Cuba’s internal bureaucratic turf wars made matters worse. There was no consensus within the Cuban government about which agency should implement its policies toward the émigré community. Initially, the Communist Party had assigned the Ministry of the Interior the responsibility for young Cuban exiles returning for visits. Those leading the ‹ght against the counterrevolution were charged with insuring that the young exiles were not in‹ltrators, in light of the government’s fear about the activities of the Cuban exile right. But those in the elite of the Communist Party bureaucracy, such as the Department of the Americas, which over- saw foreign policy matters, argued that they should direct policy toward ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 111

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the community abroad. The relationship, they argued, had clear foreign policy implications, since most Cuban émigrés lived in the United States, and the Cuban-American right-wing community was very active in foreign policy projects aimed at Cuba. The Department of the Americas was headed by Manuel Piñeiro, popularly known as “Barba Roja” and reputed to be in charge of coordinating guerrilla activities throughout Latin America.5 In the early 1980s this department tried to wrest policymaking control from the units within the Ministries of Foreign Relations and the Interior that dealt with the émigré communities. The Ministry of the Interior argued that of‹ces in charge of emigration and immigration were under its jurisdiction, and, as such, it should be in charge of policies regarding those who left. It also argued that the exile community was its turf because those who had left Cuba were traitors and potential counterrevolutionaries, and the Ministry was in charge of defending the country from the counterrevolution. The Ministry of For- eign Relations defended the position of the Ministry of the Interior, while arguing that it, too, should have oversight since it administered the consulate of‹ces abroad. With impassioned rhetoric the government bureaucrats of the Min- istry of the Interior were able to fend off the attempted takeover by Com- munist Party bureaucrats of relations with the exile community. They argued that these policies had tremendous domestic implications, as was made clear by the numbers of Cubans who wanted to leave the island after the community visits. It also had an effect on Cuba’s national security, since counterrevolution was primarily a product of the community abroad. In the end national security arguments won out over arguments for reconciliation. Furthermore, the Ministry of the Interior contained the immigration department and a counterintelligence unit. Their contact with the community could produce valuable sources of information for the ‹ght against counterrevolution. Within Cuba the exile community issue was studied initially within two centers. One was El Centro de Estudios Sobre América (CEA), a think tank of the Communist Party’s Department of the Americas. The Party maintained that it was responsible for developing Cuba’s policies toward the United States and, as such, wanted to provide input on issues that might affect those relations. Thus, the Party think tank was allowed to study immigration as a bilateral issue between the United States and Cuba and therefore part of its terrain. The Ministry of the Interior supported another research center, the Department of the Study of the United States at the University of Havana, which later spawned El Centro de Estudios de Alternativas Políticas (CEAP). This think tank developed a Cuban exile ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 112

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community component in which all aspects of the community could be studied. Both centers approached the Cuban community within the context of U.S.-Cuban relations.6 There was simply no consensus in Cuba on how to handle its communities abroad. Hard-liners in the government wanted to sever relations completely with those who had left. Given their strength, the hard-line contingent was successful in setting the terms of the debate about policy toward the exile community. Opposing arguments were to be cast solely in political terms, and there was little room to advocate policies based on humanitarian grounds. For example, those who wanted to reach out to the community argued that such a strategy would isolate the right wing of the exile community by demonstrating that Cubans abroad wanted to return to their homeland and that this in turn would lessen the tensions between the community and the island. Yet they had little to show for their position. Ultimately, they were forced to justify their support for closer relations on monetary grounds. This was a position that found support in other Ministry of the Interior policies that encouraged pro‹t-making, intelligence-gathering practices. But when pro‹t became the bottom line of the policy of openness, the prospects for positive reconciliation declined. Instead of feeling gratitude to the Cuban government for the opportunity to return, émigrés resented the excessive amount of money they had to pay to do so. Many, even among those who were not strictly anti-Castro, grew embittered. Thus, rather than engendering closeness and promoting understanding between Cubans on the island and the community abroad, travel to Cuba merely fueled the “us versus them” syndrome.

The Rise of the Cuban Exile “New Right”

In the exile community supporters of the Dialogue with Cuba were caught off guard by the Mariel immigration and the Cuban government’s response to it. Many had argued that the Cuban government enjoyed popular support on the island and that those who left should respect the wishes of those who had stayed. But this notion was shattered by Mariel.7 Furthermore, it was becoming painfully clear that many of‹cials in the Cuban government had not wanted any type of relations with the exile community and had merely tolerated them as long as the government could make money. Spurned by the island government and rejected by both the exile community and the new administration in Washington, the pro-normalization sector of the community unraveled. Those arriving in the United States via Mariel were initially welcomed with open arms. In the months that followed more than 120,000 Cubans ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 113

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were transported to the United States. As the number of refugees increased, the positive response was tempered. U.S. popular opinion turned to alarm, and new arrivals from Cuba were placed in detention camps. The Freedom Flotilla, as their exodus had originally been called, gave way to a social construction that characterized the immigrants as social undesirables.8 The wave of Mariel immigrants shattered the image of the golden exile. Whereas prior immigrants from Cuba were often perceived as white, professional, staunchly anticommunist, and clustered in family groups, not even the most propagandistic anti-Castro Miami media could make those who came through Mariel ‹t the mold. However disgruntled with the Cuban regime, these were the children of the revolution, shaped and informed by its values. Mostly single males between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six, the “Marielitos,” as they came to be called by the established Cuban exile community, could not help but clash with their Miami brethren even though they did not ‹t the negative press descriptions.9 Although they were for the most part critical of the island government, the Marielitos generally held a more balanced view of Castro’s programs, often praising its systems of health care and education, its sports programs, and its gutsy nationalism. Unlike prior waves of Cuban exiles, they were hard to de‹ne ideologically. In many cases they parted ways with Cuba’s leadership because of its inef‹cient governance and poor economic performance. They wanted more—more economic and educational opportunities, more consumer goods, more sexual freedom, more liberty to travel. Needless to say, there were Marielitos who left for more explicit political reasons as well, such as author Reinaldo Arenas, whose book Before Night Falls chronicles his relationship to the revolution and the exile community. Nonetheless, whether coming to the United States for practical necessity or ideological principle, Marielitos were all considered outcasts. Interestingly, the Mariel immigrants injected the émigré community with a new cultural life. Painters such as Carlos Alfonso and Juan Boza shared new visions of the island. Jazz musicians like Paquito de Rivera quickly established impressive recording careers. Yet the presence of these artists challenged the prevailing assumption within the exile community that culture could not be created on the island because of political repression. The community’s polarized vision of the island could not accommodate the nuances of this challenge. Thus, these artists, too, despite their success, were not fully welcomed into the community. One of the most important rami‹cations of the mass exodus is that it called into question the stability of the Castro government. For the ‹rst time in years many émigrés again believed that Cuba’s revolutionary gov- ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 114

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ernment could fall. This fueled the activities of traditional right-wing groups, who quickly organized paramilitary camps.10 Some groups became more militant in their positions, to the point that the previously moderate Abdala began promoting Dr. Orlando Bosch, the man who had established the terrorist group Cuban Power in the late 1970s.11 This call to action within the right wing of the émigré community, combined with the simultaneous consolidation of the New Right in the White House, halted the diplomacy that had emerged during the Carter years. Rifts began to appear in the right-wing émigré coalition composed of the old Right, paramilitary groups such as Alpha 66, and new conservatives in search of a legitimate vehicle through which to conduct political and economic business in Washington. The exile community’s new business sector represented the maturation of an economic base now seeking a political vehicle.12 Their politics were expressed in ethnic terms in part because of local reaction against the Mariel Cubans, which contributed to reasserting an ethnic identity.13 The new conservatives shared in the Reaganite vision of world politics, particularly concerning Latin America. This vision was expressed in a document entitled A New Latin American Policy for the Eighties, presented to the president by the Santa Fe group of the Inter-American Security Council.14 The Santa Fe report advocated a series of theoretical and practical recommendations that played an important role in the administration’s Latin American foreign policies. Roger Fontaine, one of its authors and a link to conservative exiles, was later appointed the president’s principal advisor on Latin America in the National Security Council (NSC). The main problem facing Latin America, according to the Santa Fe group, was internal subversion, which in its view was a product of “external intervention.” Of perceived immediate danger to the region was the Sandinista victory in Nicaragua and the New Jewel Movement in Grenada, both of which were seen as instances of Soviet/Cuban involvement in Central America and the Caribbean. The Santa Fe group asserted that Cuba was a proxy for Soviet in›uence in the hemisphere and should be made to pay a high price for its alleged adventurism. The group recommended the expulsion of Cuban diplomats in Washington, the cessation of American tourism to Cuba, radio broadcasts to Cuba, and, if necessary, support for a war of liberation against the revolutionary government. It reclaimed the status of “freedom ‹ghters” for those that had previously been named “terrorists.” At the beginning of March 1981 Secretary of State Alexander Haig appeared before the Senate and House Foreign Relations Committees con‹rming that a series of options were being considered to deal with the “Soviet problem” and that these included military actions against Cuba. ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 115

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Days later a Miami tabloid featured a story headlined, “Plan Ready for Invasion of the Caribbean.”15 In the Cuban émigré community traditional exile organizations applauded these developments and began to prepare for war. Weekend training camps were rejuvenated in the Everglades and in other parts of the United States.

PACs Emerge

Key Republicans had been eyeing the Cuban-American community as early as 1980. This was especially the case among members of the New Right, whose ideology coincided with the conservatism many Cuban- Americans had shown in their past political involvement on foreign policy issues. Roger Fontaine asserted that what was needed in Washington was a strong, conservative Cuban-American lobby.16 As if in response, and just months after the 1980 election, a group of Cuban-American businessmen and ideologues formed the Cuban-American National Foundation (CANF). Its ‹rst meetings were held at National Security Council of‹ces in Washington as part of the administration’s effort to build citizen diplomacy for its projects. Jorge Más Canosa, a Cuban exile, was brought on board by NSC employee Richard Allen to help organize the foundation.17 Más Canosa became president of the CANF board. As a young man, he had fought against the Batista dictatorship and later joined the Bay of Pigs invasion. Like others in the invasion forces, Más Canosa established ties with U.S. intelligence services. He worked his way up the economic ladder in Miami, eventually buying out the multimillion-dollar contract- ing ‹rm where he worked. As its president, he anglicized the company’s name from Iglesias y Torres to Church and Tower.18 His company ›ourished with minority subcontracts from both the private and public sector. At the time Más Canosa was a member of Representación Cubana en el Exilio (Cuban Representation in Exile), or RECE, along with Félix Rodriguez, the CIA agent who helped kill Che Guevara. RECE was involved in terrorist acts throughout the late 1960s. Although CANF’s stated aim was to bring democracy and capitalism to Cuba, its oligarchic structure stood in stark contrast to its espoused democratic goals. The CANF board was composed of two tiers: directors, who paid the organization an annual fee of ten thousand dollars, and trustees, who paid ‹ve thousand dollars yearly.19 Only the directors were permitted to vote on foundation matters. CANF’s board of directors consisted exclusively of male leaders drawn mainly from Miami’s ‹nancial and import-export sector. It was not until 1990 that the ‹rst women members came on board, and, even then, only three of its sixty-six directors and three of its seventy-two trustees were women.20 Instead of promoting a ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 116

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vision of democracy that respected the principles of representation and equal opportunity for all, CANF in practice embodied a set of values contrary to its stated purposes. The board named Frank Calzón its ‹rst executive director. Calzón had been the director of “On Human Rights,” a Washington-based group dedicated to publishing materials and lobbying Congress on human rights violations in Cuba. Yet the board was in con›ict with its administrative staff, and Calzón, a Washington insider for many years, clashed with Más Canosa. Calzón was interested in maintaining pressure on Washington and did not want to stray too far from issues closely related to Cuba. Más Canosa, however, was becoming increasingly embroiled in political turf wars in Miami, such as local electoral races, while venturing into other foreign policy concerns, such as building support for the Angolan opposition. Calzón left the organization. CANF’s subsequent director, Jóse Antonio Font, later resigned in protest over Más Canosa’s dictatorial style. While CANF was the product of a maturing economic base in Miami, its initial legitimacy within the community was based on its ties to conservative young ideologues like Calzón and Font. But con›ict with these men gave the pragmatist Más Canosa an opportunity to exert more control over CANF. Calzón, Font, and their ideological counterparts took refuge in other organizations, such as Freedom House.21 CANF’s in›uence continued to increase. In its ‹rst year of operations it spawned two other organizations: the National Coalition for a Free Cuba, a PAC initially headed by Frank Hernández, president of Ago-Tech International, a company involved in agribusiness with Latin America; and the Cuban-American Public Affairs Council, a lobbying group (see table 6). Although CANF claimed to be nonpartisan, the goals and projects for which it lobbied closely resembled many of Reagan’s own priorities. For instance, CANF became part of the Reagan public diplomacy program to support the contras in Nicaragua. During this period Más Canosa would often say, “The way to Havana begins in Managua.”22 CANF became a strong supporter of the rebels ‹ghting the Cuban-backed government in Angola. In these efforts Más Canosa’s organization helped the administration repeal the Clark amendment, which prohibited the White House from funding the rebels. It also helped build support for the Grenada invasion and was instrumental in helping the president pass his Caribbean Basin Tax Plan, which directly bene‹ted the businessmen on the CANF board. All the while the GOP continued to recruit Cuban exiles into its domestic and foreign policy projects. The Republicans created private citizens’ groups to help raise funds for projects on which Congress had imposed spending limits, including military operations in Central Amer- ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 117

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ica. One such group was Prodemca, a sister organization to the National Endowment for Democracy (NED), a federal agency that distributed monies to projects that supported the administration’s foreign policy. By 1988 CANF had received a total of $390,000 in federal funds from the NED to disseminate information about human rights in Cuba. In turn, the National Coalition for a Free Cuba reported that over the same period its members had contributed $385,400 to various political campaigns.23 Cuban exiles also supported Reagan’s military actions in Central America by helping to train Nicaraguan opposition forces. The NED was one of the key governmental players in this con›ict as well. In return, the Reagan administration hardened its policies toward Cuba and sought ways to limit contact with the island. Indeed, in 1982 the Treasury Department found a way to restrict travel without violating the Constitution,24 by issuing regulations prohibiting the transfer of U.S. currency to Cuba.25 Although this action was challenged, the Supreme Court ruled that U.S. residents did not have a constitutional right to spend money and upheld the president’s order.26 The regulations exempted academics and professionals, all of whom were potential challengers to the regulations on First Amendment grounds. The provisions also exempted Cuban exiles with families on the island; the administration understood that, regardless of the public rhetoric in the exile community, the vast majority of exiles wanted to visit their homeland. Exemptions notwith- standing, the regulations marked the ‹rst time in U.S. history that travel was restricted during peacetime. There was one arena in which U.S. policymaking withstood the lobbying pressure of CANF, and that was immigration policy. Despite opposition by the foundation to the Reagan administration’s entering into treaty negotiations with Cuba, the administration stood its ground and reached a landmark accord with Cuba in its immigration agreement of 1984. The negotiators hoped to put in place a process that would help normalize immigration between the countries. For different reasons both governments wanted to avoid another Mariel. The United States did not want another country to decide who entered its territory, as had happened during Mariel. It wanted a guarantee that, if someone entered the United States without permission, it could deport that person. Furthermore, it did not want a future immigration situation like Mariel, which had been a political liability to the Carter administration.27 For Cuba it was important to have a way through which people who wanted to emigrate to the United States could do so in a timely and orderly manner. The agreement called for the United States to grant up to twenty thousand visas a year and for Cuba to accept “deportables.” Some of these were Cubans who were deemed unacceptable upon their ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 118

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arrival and had been sitting in U.S. jails since leaving the island through Mariel in 1980. Others were Cubans who were arrested after they had been released from Mariel processing camps. After the agreements were signed, the United States began deportations from an Atlanta prison camp. CANF and others protested ‹ercely, but the administration thought it was more important to regain the upper hand on immigration dealings with the island than to satisfy the Cuban émigré constituency. Perhaps the clearest indication of CANF’s relationship with the Rea- gan administration and the New Right were its actions in support of Radio Jóse Martí, the U.S. government radio station beamed at Cuba.28 Radio Martí had the effect of worsening relations between the two nations. The idea for the project ‹rst appeared in the report on Latin America by the Santa Fe group.29 A radio program was necessary, according to the report, to prepare the terrain for Cuban freedom ‹ghters in case the Castro government did not fall on its own. The group felt the range of issues covered by the Voice of the Americas program diluted the emphasis on Cuban issues. Radio Martí would have its own programming staff and editorial board that responded directly to the White House. The administration initiated the project, and Paula Hawkins, former Republican senator from Florida, introduced a bill in the Senate. Reagan formed the Commission of Broadcasting to Cuba as a means of developing support for the radio project and named two Cuban-Americans to its membership: Tirso de Junco, a Californian Republican, and Jorge Más Canosa. The bill initially faced opposition, especially from U.S. broadcasters who were concerned about the Cuban government’s threat to retaliate by jamming U.S. airwaves. Wayne Smith, chief of the U.S. Interests Section in Havana, also feared that Cuba would cancel the immigration agreement that had been reached. But CANF played a key role for the administration in gathering nationwide support for the bill by lobbying Congress and running ads condemning those who did not support it. CANF knew that early and strong involvement would give it a voice in shaping policy at Radio Martí. Since its inception top CANF leaders have been involved in Radio Martí, and it often has been perceived to be as much a CANF effort as a U.S. government project. CANF also expected that the station would provide a way of rewarding its supporters with government employment. After passage of the Radio Martí bill, Rea- gan named Ernesto Betancourt, a member of the CANF speakers bureau, as its ‹rst director. The Cuban-American Committee, the progressive group that had been formed after the 1978 Dialogue, lobbied against the Radio Martí bill. This time the group was met not by terrorists and would-be terrorists but by a well-organized and well-‹nanced right-wing lobbying group with ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 119

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which it could not compete. The committee had high visibility in Wash- ington through its executive director, but it never succeeded in reaching beyond the Washington Beltway and broadening its support in the Cuban exile community. Indeed, with the unraveling of the pro-normalization movement and the reduction of ›ights to Cuba, the committee lost its main source of ‹nancial support and in the mid-1980s temporarily closed its of‹ces. Although it reopened a few years later with a new board (of which I was a member), the committee could not contend organizationally or ‹nancially with CANF, even though its new director, Alicia Torres, frequently appeared in the media in debate with Más Canosa. Despite opposition efforts by the Cuban-American Committee, on May 20, 1985, the Reagan administration launched Radio Martí with the highly visible participation of the Cuban-American National Foundation. The Cuban government, having few cards to play, responded by suspend- ing the 1984 immigration agreement with the Reagan administration on the return of Mariel prisoners and exit visas for political prisoners. More surprisingly, Cuba also suspended the accords of the Dialogue and for one year did not allow Cuban exiles to visit the island. Although the U.S. government had restricted travel by prohibiting the transfer of monies to the island, it had exempted Cubans with relatives in Cuba. In contrast, Fidel Castro prohibited visits to the island by all Cuban émigrés, including members of the Antonio Maceo Brigade who were sympathetic to the revolution.30 Although this action was meant in part to send a message to the Cuban exile community, cancellation of the agreements also re›ected the lack of coherent governmental policies toward émigrés. It further showed that Fidel Castro could make and unmake policy whenever he felt like it. The action surprised Dialogue supporters, since, in effect, it aligned the Cuban government with those who had consistently fought against the travel of Cuban exiles to Cuba—the most reactionary forces in the exile community. In the fall of 1985 progressive Cuban émigrés organized a meeting in New York to develop a strategy to protest Cuba’s actions. The meeting was held despite pressure from Cuban government of‹cials stationed in New York and Washington to cancel the meeting. Included among the coalition were the Cuban-American Committee, El Circulo de Cultura Cubana, Areíto, the Antonio Maceo Brigade, Casa de las Americas, a group of émigrés from the 1950s, and Marazul, the travel agency that chartered ›ights to Cuba. By this time progressive émigré groups had lost political prestige in the community. The right that we had defended—to return to our homeland without fear of reprisal from the right wing—was now being denied by the Cuban government. ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 120

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In the 1980s those who remained focused on trying to better relations with Cuba and were relegated to negotiating the number of visas and the price of trips. Given their lack of legitimacy in the exile community, these groups had little possibility of in›uencing either government. Indeed, many progressives in the exile community, particularly in the travel industry, developed economic interests that were best served by not pressuring the Cuban government. After 1985 Cuba moved cautiously to reestablish contact with the exile community. Family visits resumed but only under very speci‹c conditions generally related to narrowly de‹ned humanitarian concerns. For example, exiles were issued reentry permits from the Cuban government to visit sick relatives on the island only after the exile procured a document from a physician in Cuba as evidence that the close relative he or she wished to visit was seriously ill. Often, by the time the paperwork was completed, the relative on the island had died. The doors were also reopened to progressive Cubans who had been advocates for better relations. The credibility of these groups had been greatly damaged as a result of the events that unfolded after Cuba canceled Dialogue accords after the Mariel exodus. Many still believed that a new Cuban policy toward the community was possible but that it had to be based on more humanitarian concerns. One of their chief priorities was that the price of trips to Cuba be lowered.31 In Cuba the exile community again became a taboo topic. Gone were the images of the Antonio Maceo Brigade that ‹lled the island’s news screens in 1978 and the stories of reunifying visits as captured in 55 Her- manos. Exiles disappeared from the pages and reels of the Cuban press, much as they had after the October Missile Crisis.32 The exile characters found in popular culture were now more ambivalent. Such portrayals were exempli‹ed by Lejania, the new ‹lm by Jesús Díaz, the director of 55 Hermanos. Unlike 55 Hermanos, which embrace returning exiles, Lejania is a ‹ctional account of a mother returning to Cuba to see her son, who had not been allowed to leave with her because he was of military age. In the story the son fends off his mother’s attempts to lure him with gifts, opting instead to stay and work for the revolution. Yet, while progressive Cuban émigrés vanished from public view on the island, Cuba’s suspension of the Dialogue enhanced these groups’ visibility in the United States, as it forced Cuban émigrés who supported the accords to refocus their political activities on domestic issues. This, in turn, provided the basis upon which to build coalitions with other minorities. Many progressive Cubans had initially been radicalized in minority community movements, and these past political relations eased the process of building bridges. ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 121

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Latinos and the GOP Electoral Strategy

The Republican strategy of fundamentally altering the course of U.S. foreign policy toward Latin America was accompanied by a domestic electoral strategy that included reaching out to Latinos. Reagan suffered from what the media dubbed an “image” problem with minorities. African- Americans and Latinos generally supported the Democratic Party in higher numbers than the Republican Party, and Reagan was forced to make special efforts to bridge this gap. It was unclear how he might accomplish this turnaround, since minorities generally did not support his economic agenda, which called for reversing years of gains in social programs that had mostly bene‹ted urban areas. The Republicans were keenly ideological in their approach to politics and, as such, understood the impact of symbolism. Hence, not only did they accept Cuban exiles as supporters, but they also promoted many of them to key policy positions within the government. Many appointees had close links to CANF. Among the highest-level appointments were those of José Sorzano, a Georgetown University professor of political science, as ambassador to the Economic and Social Council of the United Nations, and Otto Reich to various diplomatic posts. Not all appointments were concentrated in foreign policy; Reagan appointed Cuban exiles to positions within the bureaucracy having domestic policy functions as well.33 Cubans were also given key positions within the Republican Party hierar- chy. The powerful Republican Finance Committee invited Carlos Benitez, also on CANF’s board, to join its other nine members. In 1983 the party replaced the president of its National Hispanic Assembly, Fernando C. de Baca, a Mexican from New Mexico, with Tirso de Junco, a Cuban from California. Cubans were also handed the reins of several state-level Republican Party Hispanic Assemblies. Cubans in Florida provided the Republican Party with a base from which to establish itself in the usually Democratic-controlled state. The electoral strategy there relied on ‹elding Cuban émigré candidates against Democrats. In 1982 this led to Manuel Yglesias, a young Cuban exile from Miami, running against Claude Pepper. Although Yglesias lost, the Republicans had made their point: unlike the Democrats, they were willing to support Cuban-American candidates. In the summer of 1983 Reagan announced that he would run for a second term. Florida, Texas, and California were among the states he targeted as necessary to win the 1984 election. Key to the outcome in all three of these states were registered Latino voters. In the 1984 campaign the Republican Party made concerted efforts to capture at least 30 percent of the traditionally Democratic vote. As part of that strategy, the opening ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 122

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speech at the presidential nominating convention was delivered by Kather- ine Ortega, Reagan’s highest-ranking Latina. As one of the top ‹scal policymakers in the country, the symbolism of Katherine Ortega signing all paper currency did not go unnoticed by Republican image makers. While Mexican-Americans and Puerto Ricans generally did not support Reagan’s domestic and foreign policies, especially those directed at Latin America, a signi‹cant number of Cubans did. Cuban exiles saw Rea- gan as a champion of anticommunism and quickly embraced him and the Republican Party. As a result, by the early 1980s the Democrats had lost their hold on registered Cuban voters. Yet their support for the Republi- can Party was based on more than simply ideological concerns. In part Cubans supported the GOP because it backed local Cuban-American candidates. Unlike the Democrats in Florida who were unwilling to promote Cuban émigré candidates and still clung to a conservative domestic agenda, including English-only provisions,34 the Republicans were more willing to welcome Cuban exiles into the fold. In addition, sectors of the Cuban exile community, particularly businesspeople, also bene‹ted from Reagan’s economic policies that denounced government spending and privatized many government services. Often this translated into contracts for Latino business organizations. One particularly lucrative State Department contract was awarded to the Cuban-American National Foundation. Under this $1.7 million deal CANF would establish a program for Cubans held in third countries to be relocated to the United States. CANF would screen the applicants, make a recommendation to the Immigration and Naturalization Service on whether or not to issue a visa, relocate the exile, and provide basic services during the period of transition. From this program other Cuban émi- gré businesses received subcontracts to provide health care and employment counseling to the new arrivals. In the 1980s the Republican Party wrote off the African-American community as hopelessly Democratic and concentrated on the Latino community as its own minority.35 Among Latinos the Cuban community responded most enthusiastically to these overtures. Cubans provided a basis on which Republicans could claim Latino support, which they hoped might help their image problem with other minorities. In turn the Repub- lican administration increased its appointment of Latinos, including a signi‹cant number of Cubans, to government positions. Cuban exiles ful‹lled both foreign and domestic policy purposes for the Republicans as supporters of Reagan’s foreign policy and a convenient minority for the image makers. In the 1984 elections 30 percent of the national Latino vote went to Reagan; this included 18 percent of the Puerto Rican vote, 30 percent of the Mexican vote, and an overwhelming 80 percent of the Cuban ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 123

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vote.36 Cuban émigrés had become an important constituency for Repub- licans in Florida. In spite of the political successes of the Reagan-aligned Cuban exiles, they failed in their ‹rst attempts to elect a mayor in Miami. In the 1985 primary elections Maurice Ferré, a national Democrat and Puerto Rican incumbent, came in third. The run-off was between Raul Masvidal, a vocal supporter of Reagan and a CANF board member, and Xavier Súarez, a Harvard graduate exile. Miami voters opted for Súarez, the candidate who had been most visible on domestic issues. Although CANF had strong ties to the foreign policy arena, it had a weak electoral base in Miami and little experience in developing and managing a grassroots campaign. CANF members worked effectively as closed-door lobbyists and negotiators; initially, though, they were at a loss about how to articulate domestic issues and loathe to engage in the often banal public debate that is at the core of popular elections. By 1989, however, CANF managed to pull off a local victory. Several years of wielding power in Washington and returning jobs and services to the Miami community had given the organization an electoral foothold. CANF, along with the Republican National Committee (RNC), succeeded in electing Ileana Ros-Lehtinin to ‹ll the congressional seat vacated by the death of Claude Pepper. The victory came, in large part, because of the RNC’s involvement and a general trend toward the election of women candidates. But CANF played an active role in Ros-Lehtinin’s campaign and then positioned itself to take most of the credit for her win. Ros- Lehtinin became the ‹rst Cuban émigré elected to Congress. The Demo- cratic candidate was Gerald Richmond, someone who had alienated the Cuban exile community by supporting the English-only movement.37 The National Association of Latino Elected and Appointed Of‹cials heralded the event by noting, “Ros-Lehtinen’s victory marks a milestone in Latino politics as she is both the ‹rst Latina and the ‹rst Cuban-American to serve in Congress.”38 Ros-Lehtinen was immediately welcomed into the Congressional Hispanic Caucus. By 1992 there were eight Cuban state legislators, two state senators, and one congressional representative from South Florida in of‹ce. All were Republican. While Republicans garnered more than 90 percent of the Miami Cuban-American vote in the 1980 elections, they fared less well with Cubans in northern and midwestern cities. The percentage of Cubans voting for Republicans ranged from 65 percent in New York to 68 percent in Chicago.39 Outside the Miami enclave Cuban exiles were more supportive of a progressive social agenda and a less interventionist foreign policy. Cubans in northern urban areas suffered from the severe cutbacks in federal services of the 1980s and hence were less likely to support Republi- ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 124

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cans. Equally important, outside of Miami (and New Jersey) the Cuban right wing was less dominant, and there were fewer acts of political repression against progressive Cuban exile activists. In cities outside of Miami progressive Cubans joined in building minority electoral coalitions. In Chicago a small but signi‹cant group of Cuban-American Democrats participated in the 1983 mayoral election. More than 50 percent of Cubans voted for Harold Washington, a progressive Democrat who became the city’s ‹rst African-American mayor, despite a well-organized campaign by the Cuban Right in support of the Republican candidate, Bernard Epton.40 In the 1987 reelection campaign, of all Latinos surveyed by the Midwest Voter Registration and Education Project, Cubans gave Harold Washington the highest proportion of their vote.41 In Boston Cubans also played an important organizing role in Mel King’s campaign for mayor. King, an African-American, had been a vocal supporter of progressive local and national causes. In Philadelphia and in Atlanta progressive Cubans continued to play a part in the largely minority urban coalitions that ran municipal government, becoming members and executive directors of mayors’ commissions on Latino affairs. Cubans in cities such as Chicago, New York, Philadelphia, and Boston were a minority among other Latinos. Unlike the Miami enclave, these Cubans achieved political viability through a shared experience with other Latino communities. This in turn has had an impact on their political worldview, broadening the political spectrum of Cuban communities outside of Miami.42 This forging of alliances with other Latinos occurred on a national level as well. During the 1980 presidential elections progressive Cubans formed the Cuban-American Democratic Committee. They lobbied the Democratic Party with a document produced by the Cuban-American Committee, outlining a series of policy issues that affected Cuban émigrés and other Latinos.43 These issues included high school dropout rates, services for the elderly, daycare needs, bilingual education for youth, and immigration policy. The foreign policy section of the document voiced support for peaceful solutions to the crises in Central America and the Caribbean. The 1980 campaign effectively broke the monolithic hold that conservative Cuban-Americans had on the Democratic Party. Other progressive Latinos now envisioned new possibilities for the inclusion of Cuban émi- grés within their coalition. This dynamic was particularly important at a time when demographic shifts and a decade of voting rights struggles were yielding increased numbers of registered Latino voters and, eventually, record numbers of Latino elected of‹cials. ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 125

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Cuban Exiles: Changing Politics and Identity

The immigration of 120,000 Cubans and the rise of a conservative president reversed the liberalizing trend under way in Miami during the Carter administration. In the 1980s the Republicans reclaimed the White House, arriving with a well-articulated policy program that called for cutbacks in social services and the strengthening of the U.S. position abroad. The foreign policy vision they crafted was one in which Central America and the Caribbean were the regions of the world in which the East-West confrontation would be de‹ned. While most Latinos are Democrats, Republicans targeted the Cuban émigré community. An alliance was forged between the New Right of the Republican Party and the right wing of the Cuban exile community that had not been accommodated by the Democrats in Florida. Unlike past administrations that had relegated Cuban exiles to ‹ghting dirty wars, the Republicans in the 1980s brought Cuban exiles into the halls of government. The Reagan administration used these Cuban exile appointments and candidates to build an image of Latino support for its agenda. In short, Republicans promoted Cuban exiles to key positions within government and the party,44 and Cubans in turn provided a degree of legitimation for hard-line Republican policies. As such, the relationship between Cuban exiles and the Republican Party now had a domestic function, signaling the emergence of Cuban exiles from solely foreign policy actors to domestic policy actors as well. In the meantime a maturing economic base in the Cuban-American community demanded political avenues through which these new interests could be articulated and defended. Some of these interests centered on the maintenance of identity, such as language and national heritage. Since the relationship between Latinos and U.S. society has been marked historically by cultural con›ict, Latino communities often have supported an agenda independent of government with regard to issues of identity. And, even though the reception accorded Mariel immigrants was mixed in the Cuban community, the overall negative reaction by the U.S. public contributed to a sense of ethnic awareness for the community as a whole.45 While elements of the Cuban exile community have played a supporting role in the foreign policy arena and in the ongoing struggle of Latinos for af‹rmative action programs, bilingual education and services, and political representation, not all sectors of the émigré community are guaranteed allies of local power structures but, rather, potential collaborators with other minority communities. During the 1980s Cuban-American political participation in lobbying ch5.qxd 10/11/1999 10:11 AM Page 126

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and partisan electoral activities proliferated. For the Right it was conducted under the guise of Republican Party legitimacy; for progressive Cubans political activism was carried out in coalition with other minority groups. Curiously, ethnicity was an important factor in both types of organizations. The formation of the Cuban-American National Foundation exempli‹es an ethnic lobby group that emerged from the convergence of two important factors: the solidifying of an émigré community’s own economic and political base and its common interests with the government.46 CANF and the Reagan administration shared a view of the world and of Cuba in particular. In this case the émigré lobby also served a symbolic domestic function for the Republicans, allowing the GOP to claim that it had support from an important sector of a “minority” community. When CANF and the administration disagreed, the administration prevailed in some instances and not in others. Yet the privileged status enjoyed by CANF as a result of its relationship to the Reagan administration provided Cuban exiles with suf‹cient resources, power, and knowledge of how government works to make them formidable opponents when such disagreements did arise. The 1980s witnessed the exile community’s transition from marginal political actors into the realm of mainstream politics—an impressive leap accomplished in fewer than twenty years. The transition was accomplished not only through lobbying at the national level but by building a local economic and political base. This dual power base resulted in greater in›uence in Washington as well as in the election of local and federal of‹cials. The unique relationship between Cuban exiles and the American state, of course, facilitated this transition, as did its timing, with the émigré community coming of age politically in the 1980s—what has been called the decade of Hispanics. It was also in the 1980s that the notion of “Cuban-American” became more prevalent. This change in self-de‹nition from exile to hyphenated immigrant group is precipitated by an intent to participate in host country politics on a larger scale—to broaden the community’s agenda from its singular focus on homeland and to exert its political capital in areas other than immigration or foreign policy. Nevertheless, as is the case with all hyphenated identities, concerns about homeland persisted. ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 127

CHAPTER 6 Cuban Exile Politics at the End of the Cold War

The end of the 1980s and beginning of the 1990s witnessed major transformations globally. The cold war that had so de‹nitively shaped world politics since World War II came to an end. The end of the cold war did not automatically translate into changes in U.S. policies toward Cuba. It did, however, mean that Cuba as the world had known it ceased to exist. No longer a favorite trading partner of the vanishing socialist bloc, it was left on its own to survive. As such, its economic and ideological apparatus began to crumble. A tremendous power struggle ensued on the island that within a period of three years had given way to extensive political purges. One arena within which these power struggles took place concerned Cuba’s policies toward its communities abroad. Policies toward the émigré community became entangled in internal bureaucratic power politics. At the same time, emigration off the island increased dramatically as economic conditions worsened and political opportunities for change dwindled. This provided the weakening government with an issue through which to rally el pueblo and a trump card with which to negotiate with the United States. Meanwhile, in the Cuban exile community an unprecedented realignment occurred as dissidents from the Right and Left coalesced into a new force searching for alternatives within the post–cold war context. Former activists from the Cuban-American National Foundation and the Antonio Maceo Brigade began to talk to one another about the need for a more comprehensive view of the nation and exile. Intellectuals and artists who left the island in the late 1980s and early 1990s enhanced the conversation. At the same time, a discussion of Cuba’s future and its relationship to the community abroad was also taking place across the Florida Straits in Cuba.

Waiting for the Fall

Ironically, Ronald Reagan’s term in of‹ce closed with the United States and Cuba signaling each other about a possible resolution to their con›icts. A thaw in relations between the Soviet Union and the United

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130 In the Land of Mirrors

States facilitated the administration’s reconsideration of its Cuba policies. The most visible sign of this thaw was the reinstatement of the 1984 immigration agreement that had been canceled by Cuba after the United States launched Radio Martí. The more relaxed political environment in the White House created a climate in which the notion of reengagement could surface in the legislative branch as well. In 1988 Senator Claiborne Pell, Democrat from Rhode Island and chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, presented to Congress a report from a fact-‹nding trip to the island urging that the United States reinstate relations with Cuba.1 The report outlined steps that could be taken to begin the process, such as drug traf‹cking treaties and initiatives to facilitate contact between divided families. These last issues were important in convincing moderates from the exile community to support reestablishment of relations with their homeland. Yet voices arguing for reengagement with Cuba fell on the deaf ears of George Bush’s presidential campaign staff. Although Bush, then vice president and running to succeed Reagan, had made promises not to use an economic embargo in foreign policy disputes, he maintained a relatively hard line toward Cuba and supported the continuation of the embargo on the island. Bush also made human rights in Cuba a cornerstone of his concerns, naming Armando Valladeres, a former political prisoner, as a personal hero during televised debates. Valladeres, who spent twenty-two years in Cuban prisons, had been released in 1982 after an intensive international campaign. More militant anti-Castro Cuban exile organizations rallied around Valladeres, who eventually published several books about his experience in jail. He also established a foundation to aid Cubans who wanted to leave the island.2 Regardless of the campaign rhetoric, many observers expected Bush to engage the Castro government in negotiations once in of‹ce. They believed that, since the end of the cold war had resolved the major points of contention between the two countries, Bush would naturally seize the opportunity to chart a new course—after all, U.S. businesses were growing increasingly anxious about being denied economic opportunities on the island.3 The debate had shifted ground from whether to reengage to how to reengage.4 The Santa Fe group that eight years earlier had argued against normalizing relations now said that the fall of Castro was imminent and that the United States should get its foot in the door if it wanted to in›uence the future of Cuban society. In its 1988 report it advocated developing relations with younger government functionaries as a way to identify potential reformers. Hope for a change in U.S. policy toward Cuba grew whenever the Bush administration reached out to Latin American countries through, for ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 131

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example, the new president’s special effort to negotiate a trade treaty with Mexico. Yet U.S. policy on Cuba remained frozen. In the spring of 1989 Secretary of State James Baker sent a memo to U.S. embassies around the world dashing all hopes that there was about to be a change. Baker said there would be no shift in policy as long as there were human rights violations and a lack of democratic freedoms in Cuba. Bush named Valladares, who had close ties to CANF, as U.S. representative to the United Nations Human Rights Commission and continued to exert pressure on Cuba through international agencies, particularly those focused on human rights violations. Policymakers opposed to any change in the U.S. approach toward Cuba received new impetus with the fall of the socialist bloc in 1989. That year at a congressional hearing chaired by Representative George Crock- ett, Democrat from Michigan and head of the Western Hemisphere subcommittee of the House Foreign Affairs Committee, Pamela Falk, professor at Columbia University and conservative Cuba expert, argued that a shift in U.S. policy would send the wrong message to Fidel Castro. She argued that Castro’s time was running out and that this was not the moment to take the pressure off; instead, continued pressure would help hasten the regime’s demise. Others concurred, arguing that the United States should not make changes that could be interpreted as endorsements of the Castro regime. Closely linked to the endorsement of the long-standing hostile U.S. policy toward Cuba was a proposal for the creation of a television station to beam programs to the island. Modeled on Radio Martí, TV Martí would broadcast U.S.-based television programming through a newly created channel.5 There were many opponents of this proposal, even among those who had supported the radio station. They argued that Cuba could block television signals more effectively than radio waves and that, since the Cuban government had learned to live with Radio Martí, it was best not to rock the boat with a new offensive. Instead, more funding should go to Radio Martí. Ernesto Betancourt, the director of Radio Martí, supported this position, but CANF’s leader, Jorge Más Canosa, insisted on TV Martí. Congress ‹nally endorsed the initiative, and Betancourt resigned. CANF, however, demonstrated that it knew how to play the legislative game. They concentrated their efforts in Congress and with the help of donations in›uenced the legislative process (see tables 7 and 8). Other legislative attempts to toughen U.S. policy failed initially. In fact, Congress passed an amendment to the Trading with the Enemy Act that prohibited the president from directly or indirectly regulating the import of publications, ‹lms, posters, phonograph records, photographs, micro‹lm, and other informational material. In this way the nearly thirty- ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 132

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year-old ban on the importation of informational materials from Cuba was lifted.6 Immigration remained an area in which the administration strove to keep lines of communication open. Although the immigration treaty reinstated in 1987 was in effect during Bush’s term, many Cubans who did not qualify for the U.S. quota continued coming to the United States on rafts.7 Upon arriving in the United States, these refugees were treated as heroes by the Cuban exile community and by U.S. of‹cials. Estimates of those who died trying to cross the Florida Straits ranged from three in ten to seven in ten. An organization emerged called Her- manos al Rescate (Brothers to the Rescue), a group of pilots who ›ew over the waters of the Florida Straits in helicopters and small planes, sighting rafters and alerting the Coast Guard, who would then rescue the rafters. As the economic crisis in Cuba worsened, attempts to cross the Florida Straits increased. Initially, the Cuban government prosecuted those attempting to leave, but, just as the rafters had become heroes in Miami, popular sentiment in Cuba was with them as well. After all, many of the

TABLE 7. Contributions by Individuals with Cuban Interests to Presidential Candidatesa Candidate 1988 1992 Total Bush, George (R) $18,000 $57,450 $75,450 Clinton, William Jefferson (D) $1,750 $1,750 Dole, Robert J. (R) $11,250 $11,250 Dukakis, Michael S. (D) $1,000 $1,000 Fernandez, Ben (R) $1,000 $1,000 Gephardt, Richard A. (D) $2,500 $2,500 Gore, Albert, Jr. (D) $2,500 $2,500 Haig, Alexander Meigs, Jr. (R) $1,000 $1,000 Harkin, Tom (D) $1,250 $1,250 Kemp, Jack (R) $6,900 $6,900 Robertson, Marion Gordon (Pat) (R) $1,441 $1,441 Simon, Paul (D) $1,000 $1,000 Tsongas, Paul E. (D) $250 $250

Total (D) $7,000 $3,250 $10,250 Total (R) $39,591 $57,450 $97,041 Source: 1992, National Library on Money and Politics, Research compiled by the National Library on Money and Politics, 1992. aCuban interest individuals were defined as anti-Castro donors, either contributors to Anti-Castro Free Cuba Political Action Committee, or trustee or director of the Cuban- American National Foundation or a relative. ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 133

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rafters were individuals without the means to make their way to the United States through of‹cial channels or the money to pay the exorbitant black market rates.8 Throughout the island friends and relatives of potential rafters collected water jugs, spare tires, sheets, and food to aid in their efforts. Yet looming over the festivity of going-away parties was a sense of danger and fear for the rafters who were heading out to sea. In Miami empty rafts or bodies washing up on shore provoked collective outpour- ings of grief.9 Despite the rise in the number of rafters, the preferred mode of entrance for Cubans into the United States during this period was overstaying a tourist visa. As part of the reinstated immigration treaty, the United States granted ‹fty thousand tourist visas per year to Cubans. Ini- tially, the Cuban government placed an age restriction on the distribution of exit permits for these visas. When the age limit of 65 was lowered, the number of tourists who remained in the United States rose from 5 to 15 percent. This meant that approximately seventy-‹ve hundred Cubans per year were migrating to the United States by overstaying their visas. But, for Cubans without relatives in the United States who would pay for their trips, las Balsas (the rafts) were the only recourse.

TABLE 8. Individual and PAC Contributions to Congressional Candidates Year Individuals PACs 1979 $2,850 — 1980 $16,500 — 1981 $1,770 — 1982 $12,000 $46,622 1983 $11,500 $16,250 1984 $25,000 $115,200 1985 $54,900 $37,500 1986 $34,161 $40,300 1987 $16,500 $62,600 1988 $80,146 $103,297 1989 $67,100 $39,500 1990 $92,277 $74,627 1991 $103,840 $39,950 1992 $29,850 $15,800 Total $548,394 $591,646 Source: National Library on Money and Politics, 1992. ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 134

134 In the Land of Mirrors

Cuba after the Fall of the Socialist Bloc

The 1987 reinstatement of the immigration treaty was met with enthusiasm by Cuban of‹cials even though they had canceled the treaty two years earlier. In reality it had been Fidel Castro who had ordered the termination of the treaty as a way of punishing the exile community for its supposed support of Radio Martí. Castro’s advisors—functionaries and academics who were assigned to study the Cuban community abroad—had favored revis- ing the harsh policy toward émigrés. In addition, they called for a more comprehensive understanding of why people left the island, thus challenging the characterization that émigrés were political traitors. In 1986 the Ministry of the Interior was asked to establish a commission to investigate the “problem” of the Cuban-American community and develop a set of recommendations. The commission was staffed by academics at the University of Havana who were involved in studying the issue. Mercedes Arce, a social psychologist specializing in the psychology of the community, became its key staff member. Many of these academics provided policymakers with a more comprehensive vision of the emigration process itself as well as with the nature of the Cuban-American community in the United States.10 Emigration, they argued, was a complex phenomenon, one not to be viewed solely as a matter of political treason. They set out to study the factors contributing to the decision to leave. Some concentrated on understanding the socioeconomic makeup of the émigré community. Others studied the politics. The Centro de Estudios Sobre Amer- ica (CEA) responded to the Department of the Americas of the Central Committee of the Party. Its focus was on understanding Cuban immigration within the context of U.S.-Cuban relations. Despite the bureaucratic turf wars among these various centers, most academics agreed on a series of recommendations aimed at developing a more realistic policy toward the communities abroad. The commission— which also included representatives of the various ministries and of‹ces concerned with emigration—recommended that policies should treat leaving as a normal phenomenon, not a political one. It urged, moreover, that policies should strive to depoliticize the act of leaving and the exile community’s concern about homeland, rather than punishing people for leaving the country. Eventually, changes were implemented in Communist Party direc- tives that, until then, had instructed workplaces to ‹re anyone who applied for an exit permit. School policies that had previously discriminated against children whose parents applied for exit permits were also changed. Prior to the policy revision, for example, children were often taken out of gifted programs as a form of punishment for what the government ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 135

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described as their parents’ betrayal of the revolution. Because it often took years to secure a visa to leave the country, harsh policies such as these had created a disaffected class. By the time they ‹nally did leave, many were adamantly opposed to the regime—indeed, much more so than they had been at the beginning of their waiting periods. In 1989 the center at the University of Havana that studied U.S.- Cuban relations spawned another of‹ce called the Centro de Estudios de Alternativas Políticos (CEAP, Center for the Study of Alternative Policies), and Arce became its head. This new center worked closely with functionaries at the Ministry of the Interior who, while having a national security perspective on the politics of the exile community, were eager to become more pragmatic in their dealings with those abroad.11 It promoted academic and social exchanges, often reaching out to groups in Miami that had been shut out of their home country. But this work was as controversial in Cuba as was support for better relations with the island in Miami. Those who studied the Cuban exile community were even referred to as “gusanologos.” Furthermore, as open-minded as some of the functionaries at the Ministry of the Interior were, the purpose of the bureaucracy they worked for was to repress dissent, whether in Cuba or in the communities abroad. One of their goals was to depoliticize the exile community through various means, including the toning down of the negative rhetoric surrounding the emigration process itself. Another goal was to isolate the extreme right- wing portion of the community abroad through a “divide and conquer” strategy.12 In autumn 1989 St. Mary’s University in Nova Scotia, Canada, sponsored a conference on the future of Cuba. Since the of‹cial dialogue between the Cuban government and the community in 1978, there had been little contact between exiles and Cuban government of‹cials. A high- level Cuban delegation attended this meeting, as did leaders of many exile opposition groups, including Carlos Alberto Montaner, an exiled writer living in Spain, and Enrique Baloyra, at the time professor of political science at the University of Miami. The informal hallway discussions became more important than the formal sessions, as Cubans from on and off the island talked and debated. Upon returning to the island, Ricardo Alarcón, at the time the Cuban minister of Foreign Relations, held a press conference in which he referred to his positive meetings with Cuban exiles. This was a dramatic statement, since there had been no positive references to exiles in the state-controlled media for more than a decade. A ›urry of memos was generated by those Cuban government of‹cials who had attended the conference. Ricardo Alarcón wrote to Jorge Risquet, who was at the time in charge of foreign relations for the Polit- buro of the Communist Party, recommending a revision of Cuba’s policies ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 136

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toward the community. Alarcon understood that the immigration process was complex and should not be seen simply as an act of treason to the revolution, and he wanted Cuba’s emigration laws to re›ect this. He also stated that all U.S. administrations had used the Cuban community in their policies toward Cuba and, as such, it would be in Cuba’s interest to study ways of normalizing aspects of its relationship to that community through more regularized travel and communications. Other analysts recommended identifying sectors of the community interested in better relations, such as businesspeople and those who had relatives on the island. Rafael Hernández, of the Center for the Study of the Americas, and José Antonio Blanco, at the time with the Central Committee’s Department of the Americas, both supported changing policy but warned about the impact on the population. Blanco insisted that domestic politics should be the starting point for any discussion.13 Economic arguments for a policy change were considered as well. The CEAP prepared ‹nancial charts that included projections of how much hard currency Cuba could earn if the number of reentry permits was increased and if those who left through Mariel were allowed to return. Underlying these discussions was a growing realization that the economic collapse of the Soviet Union would have serious consequences for Cuba’s economy. Fidel Castro was announcing what was called the “Zero Option,” measures that everyone must submit to in order for the country to ride out the economic collapse.14 (One measure was the use of collective kitchens to conserve fuel.) Popular pressure was mounting on the government to resolve the economic crisis. In this context the continued war with the exile community seemed counterproductive, since many knew that their relatives could help them weather the dif‹cult economic situation. In 1990 Cuba’s Communist Party announced that restrictions on island residents for travel abroad would be minimized. The Cuban government progressively lowered the age of those allowed to leave the country from sixty-‹ve to twenty, dramatically increasing the number of people allowed to travel abroad.15 As a result of the reinstatement of the immigration treaty with the United States, Cuban citizens were now eligible to apply for tourist visas. In turn Cuba doubled the number of Cuban-Amer- icans allowed to visit the country. As a result, contact among Cubans on and off the island increased signi‹cantly.16

Increased Contacts

One important and unexpected development of lifting restrictions was that Miami, long inhabited by Cubans who had left the island permanently, suddenly became a center for island visitors. At ‹rst Cuban visitors were ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 137

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treated as a rarity. They were bombarded with political questions: were they members of the Communist Party? did they support Fidel? But, little by little, politics gave way to family concerns and friendship, and, as the walls came down, fear subsided, and the real stories of Cuba began to be told. People from the island also developed a more realistic view of life in the United States as they watched relatives struggle with jobs and daily existence. Visitors from the island became a staple in Miami; many Cuban exiles had relatives visiting or knew someone who did. With heightened contact travel to and from the island lost its political connotations. Needless to say, these visits created a cottage industry of businesses designed to facilitate contact. Given the deterioration of underwater cables between the United States and Cuba, telephone calls were limited and several companies were established to provide alternative routes for phone calls. Companies providing mail service also materialized.17 Passports, travel documents, visas, extensions on visas, and the trips themselves all carried fees, paid for by Cuban exiles.18 Cubans often returned to the island with so many gifts that families in Miami were depleted of resources after their visits. Unlike the exile visits to Cuba in the late 1970s that had spawned resentment on the part of islanders without relatives abroad, the visits to Miami had less of an impact. They took place in another country rather than on the island, yet the Cuban government still reaped ‹nancial gains. Increased contact with the Cuban community in Miami had an effect on the opposition groups on the island, which began calling for national reconciliation with those abroad. These groups were met with repression by a government that feared an internal revolt and that wanted to make sure that a leader capable of organizing such a revolt did not emerge. Par- ticularly threatening to the government were groups that had developed coherent political programs with platforms that could be characterized as to the left of the regime and that incorporated many of the unmet demands percolating through Cuban society. Groups who could claim historical legitimacy were seen as especially dangerous to the regime.19 The most signi‹cant ‹gures to emerge from the internal opposition movement were Elizardo Sánchez, Gustavo Arcos, and Ricardo Boi‹ll. Boi‹ll left the country in the late 1980s and began working with CANF. Arcos had been a member of the July 26 Movement, Fidel Castro’s original group, and had participated in the attack on the Moncada palace (the military action that had signaled the beginning of the armed movement against Batista), but he had broken with Castro early on and spent most of the revolution in jail. Arcos’ group called for a return to the revolutionary principles of the July 26 Movement. Sanchez, a former mathematics professor at the University of Havana and member of a group that had advo- ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 138

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cated Marxism in the 1960s, criticized the revolution from the left. He championed a radical social democratic platform that included a call for national reconciliation and a dialogue between the opposition on the island and abroad and the present Cuban government. Interestingly, most opposition platforms called for a national dialogue and reconciliation among all Cubans, including those abroad. In a reversal of the 1970s, when the government had taken the lead in calling for a dialogue, now it was the opposition that did so. By 1990 more than ‹fteen human rights opposition groups were operating on the island. Although their numbers were small, their political discourse gained ground among intellectuals. More important, their nationalist appeal found support among the vast numbers of the population who were increasingly excluded from the “New Cuba” created for tourists, foreign capitalists, and well-positioned government bureaucrats. Perhaps sensing the growing support for these organizations, the government stepped up the arrests of various leaders, and jail sentences were increased. Many of those detained were given the option of either going to prison or into exile. Concurrently, there was a renewed attack on those leaving as the “new gusanos.” As such, the émigré community once again became an issue by which to measure loyalty to the revolution. But in the 1990s these attacks had unexpected consequences. For instance, in December 1990 artists and professors at the Ministry of Cul- ture’s Art Institute fended off a rather amateurish attempt by Young Com- munist Party functionaries to take control of the institute. The takeover attempt was led by up-and-coming politician Carlos Aldana, who had previously attempted to seize control of the national ‹lm institute. The art students staged a mass meeting and circulated a petition defending their right to create freely. Most surprisingly, they demanded that the de‹nition of Cuban culture include what was created both on the island and abroad.20 Intellectuals in Cuba, as in most developing countries, generally have been at the vanguard of the defense of the nation and its cultural life. Adding to this complex phenomenon at the time was an economic crisis that forced many creators off the island. A large number of creative projects, such as literary magazines, were compelled to ‹nd homes and ‹nanc- ing outside the country.21 In addition, hard-liners wanted intellectuals who were increasingly critical of the regime out of the country—a position that coincided with that of reformers who supported freer travel for intellectuals. As a result, many writers and artists began spending long periods of time abroad. This development solved two problems: for the hard-liners keeping intellectuals off the island meant rendering them invisible and thus less ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 139

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threatening; if they stayed away long enough, it would even become possible to question their legitimacy. For intellectuals travel meant cultural and discursive exchange and real income that could be spent on real goods— opportunities not readily available at home. By 1992 the of‹cial count of Cuban artists and intellectuals living in Mexico alone stood at more than four thousand. Needless to say, these people, who did not identify themselves as exiles, were extremely interested in rede‹ning state policies that framed those abroad as traitors and that prohibited the publication of articles or books in Cuba that were originally published outside the country. In 1991 this crisis led the Cuban Communist Party Politburo to promote Abel Prieto, a writer, to the presidency of the state-run Union of Writers and Artists. It marked the ‹rst time that someone from the cultural sphere occupied such a post. Yet these changes were mainly symbolic. When amendments to the constitution rede‹ning regulations on work and travel abroad were proposed, those favoring the exclusion of Cubans who had left the country won out, when the votes were tallied in the National Assembly. As a result, in the summer of 1992 the Cuban Constitution was amended to reiterate that all those who had taken on the citizenship of another country would lose their Cuban citizenship. Bureaucratic turf battles prevented any restructuring of policy toward the community. The communities abroad project, heretofore run from within the Ministries of Foreign Relations and the Interior, was now placed under the supervision of Carlos Aldana’s department in the Com- munist Party. Aldana approved several projects aimed at reforming policies affecting the communities abroad, but his reform credentials had long been questioned by intellectuals and artists, who saw him as an oppor- tunist willing to speak several political languages, especially when an international public image was at stake. To them Aldana seemed quick to com- promise his principles; while he might argue for radical reform one day, the next he could be seen on national television demanding the heads of human rights leaders. This impression was reinforced by Aldana’s strategy within the Communist Party of creating an alliance with reformers and pragmatists while covering his political ›anks by repressing intellectuals, artists, and human rights advocates. In August 1992 Aldana made a weak attempt at a bureaucratic coup popularly called “La Reina Elizabeth.” The idea was to take control of the bureaucracy, leaving Castro as a ‹gurehead. Aldana’s alliance included sectors of the Ministry of the Interior, particularly those working on the Cuban community project—a group that included relatively open-minded functionaries as well those who had access to a steady source of hard currency. But, when Castro returned from the 1992 Summer Olympics, ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 140

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Aldana and everyone around him was ‹red and sent to agricultural work farms. Those stripped of power included people who were coordinating various components of the Cuban community project, such as Arce; Jesus Arboleya, director of the community project for the Ministry of the Inte- rior since 1975; and Manuel Davis, who had been the ‹rst secretary at the Cuban Interests Section in Washington and was now working in the Min- istry of Foreign Relations’ U.S. Department overseeing programs related to the émigré community.22 None of these events was reported in the Cuban press, but they were widely known and discussed nonetheless. As 1992 came to an end, the possibilities for reform through established channels diminished. Cuba was in a holding pattern. Political repression and the lack of grassroots activism severely constrained the potential for change. Younger party functionaries understood that those holding the reins of power would not give them up easily and conveniently switched their allegiance from the reformers to those in power. This would give Cubans the illusion that Castro was transferring power to a younger generation.Yet, unlike the generation that had fought in the revolution, the thirty-somethings had no claim to historical prestige and thus did not pose a real threat to Castro. As a result, these young functionaries were extremely cautious about the reform projects they proposed, avoiding those that might give the appearance of disloyalty. Supporting a change in policy toward those who had left the island clearly ‹t this category. Yet the crumbling of the ideological framework that had held the island together for thirty years set off a ‹erce political debate—albeit within the constraint of a repressive government—about what should replace it.

The Cuban Exile Community: An Old Debate Resurfaces

Events on the island had a ripple effect in Miami. In the spring of 1990 a powerful bomb exploded outside Miami’s Museo de Arte Cubana Con- temporanea, one of the few organizations willing to exhibit paintings produced by island-based artists, causing considerable damage to the building and its artwork.23 The museum’s director at the time, Ramón Cernuda, had argued for a change in U.S.-Cuban relations. The year before he had become the victim of a concerted federal government campaign of harass- ment that began with Treasury Department agents storming his house in the middle of the night and taking possession of his art collection, which included works painted by artists living on the island.24 (The federal courts eventually ruled in Cernuda’s favor and proclaimed that art was a form of information that could not be censured by the federal government.)25 Cer- nuda was also the U.S. spokesman for the Cuban Commission on Human Rights and National Reconciliation, an island-based human rights group. ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 141

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What was ironic about the targeting of Cernuda by right-wing exiles was that, like other anti-Castro activists, he advocated an end to totalitar- ianism in Cuba and to the one-man rule of Fidel Castro.26 But, unlike others, Cernuda believed that the best way to bring about political change in Cuba was not through confrontation but by ending U.S. economic and diplomatic hostility toward Cuba.27 This put Cernuda at odds with Jorge Más Canosa, president of CANF, as well as with the Bush administration, and it allied him with those Cuban exiles who supported better relations between Cuba and the United States. The Cernuda bombing showed that, while Cuban exiles could be concerned about domestic issues and be willing to play politics “a la americana,” Cuba continued to be a predominant concern of the community. Furthermore, even though organizations had emerged that lobbied on foreign policy issues, the political culture of the community, particularly in regard to resolving issues pertaining to Cuba, was heavily in›uenced by terrorist activities that had originally been promoted by the U.S. government. Perhaps the greatest signi‹cance of the Cernuda event was that it re›ected a subtle yet important realignment taking place within the Cuban exile community: Some exile organizations, taking their cues from opposition groups on the island, were embracing a more nationalist political agenda than that favored by earlier organizations, most of which were closely tied to U.S. interests. These groups also advanced a more moderate agenda that called for dialogue with the Cuban government, thus allying themselves with organizations that had emerged in the 1970s calling for the same. From the late 1980s to the early 1990s the Cuban exile community was consumed with debate over the future of Cuba. Two currents of thought—one pro-dialogue, the other anti-dialogue—dominated the community’s views on how to relate to Cuba. These positions were by no means monolithic.28 Each had real consequences for U.S.-Cuban relations and for the development of the community (see table 9).

The Anti-Dialogue Position

The anti-dialogue forces had two principal constituencies: those who advocated the overthrow of the Cuban government through military action and those who favored its destruction through economic and political isolation. Organizations favoring military action emerged mostly in the early 1960s and were closely linked with U.S. military projects. Groups such as Alpha 66 and the Brigada 2506 were in this tradition. Other, similar groups were driven underground in the late 1960s, when U.S. policy toward Cuba shifted from military confrontation to political isolation. ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 142

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They continued to operate underground and employ terrorist methods.29 In the 1980s what they perceived to be the imminent fall of the Castro government rekindled their militarism.30 Orlando Bosch, a leading advocate of this strategy, received renewed attention in 1990, when the Bush administration granted him entrance to the United States from Venezuela despite prior parole violations. He had been jailed for ‹ring a bazooka at the FBI of‹ces in Miami. Bosch, a pedi- atrician by training, had been a close supporter of Fidel Castro but joined the opposition in the early 1960s. In the mid-1970s he coordinated a coalition of groups engaged in terrorism that targeted not only the Cuban government but any government or entity that maintained relations with the island government. In 1973 he was implicated in the bombing of a Cuban airliner carrying seventy-three Venezuelan athletes to the island that exploded shortly after takeoff. The signi‹cance of these terrorist groups declined in the 1980s, but they still contributed to an authoritarian political culture in the Cuban exile community by silencing their detractors with violence and intimidation. Indeed, during the period Miami had the dubious distinction of being the U.S. city with the highest number of bombing incidents and political assassinations. In November 1991 a local television channel in Miami recorded a meeting between the military chief of Alpha 66, a post–Bay of Pigs orga-

TABLE 9. Positions of Cuban Exile Community on the Future of Cuba Positions Characteristics Advocates No dialogue • Does not recognize Cuban • Cuban-American National government Foundation • Seeks change • Junta Patriotica with outside pressure • Elected Cuban-American Officials • Opposes engagement with the island Dialogue • Supports government • Marazul as a means • Advocates economic • Cuban-American Committee of support changes from within • Brigada Antonio Maceo • Supports unconditional • Other service providers lifting of embargo Dialogue as a • Recognizes government • Instituto de Estudios Cubanos means to • Advocates for political • Cuban Committee for Democracy change and economic change • Supporters of Human Rights from within Organizations in Cuba • Exile is part of the • Catholic Church national solution • Many Intellectual and Artists ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 143

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nization involved in terrorist acts, and a Cuban United Nations of‹cial. The meeting, which took place in New York, suggested that Alpha 66 was in‹ltrated by Cuban security agents. This raised publicly a question often asked in private: who exactly was behind the bombings in Miami? was it bene‹cial to the Cuban government for Miami to be seen as a hotbed of anti-Castro terrorists? Clearly, the presence of Cuban double agents in the most extremist organizations suggested that at least part of the right-wing violence was encouraged by the Cuban government. The other principal anti-dialogue advocates believed in ‹ghting the Cuban government with economic and political pressure. Members of political organizations such as CANF had their roots in the 1960s, but they came of age during the Reagan administration, and they continued to enjoy White House access during the Bush years. The close connection between the political agenda of these groups and that of the United States gave them little legitimacy in Cuba; they were perceived as mere appendages of U.S. interests, not as independent political forces. They were also less likely to have links with internal opposition groups on the island. This became particularly obvious in the years following the fall of the socialist bloc, as these organizations devised economic, political, and social plans for the future of Cuba without the participation of Cubans living on the island. Like the old guard, these groups had a highly authoritarian political culture, as evidenced in particular by the autocratic tendencies of CANF president, Jorge Más Canosa. Más Canosa treated his opponents harshly and tolerated no dissent from his staff. Moreover, the agenda of choking the Cuban government at all costs raised questions about the real motives of CANF and similar groups. Many felt that CANF did not represent them. Only 36 percent of Cuban-Americans polled in 1988 believed that “rightist groups such as CANF represented their views.”31 Many exiles feared that CANF’s policies might spark an internal situation on the island in which violent clashes could erupt. This was not a desirable outcome, especially for Cubans with relatives on the island. Furthermore, most Cuban exiles, regardless of their feelings toward Castro, wanted to establish and maintain contact with their families. But CANF claimed that any negotiations with Castro would only buy him more time and supported a strategy of total isolation as a way to depose him more quickly. Despite the controversy surrounding its policies, CANF made its presence felt, especially in the U.S. Congress. Working closely with a political action committee, CANF made sizable donations to key members of Congress. In the late 1980s these lobbying efforts extended to other governments as well. CANF even set up an of‹ce in Moscow to lobby Rus- ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 144

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sian of‹cials to cut ties to Cuba and hired Russian authors to write edito- rials urging their government to sever ties with the island. CANF managed to alleviate the misgivings of Cuban exiles and deepen its roots in the exile community through a government contract they were awarded by the Immigration and Naturalization Service. The contract authorized them to identify Cubans in third countries, such as Mexico and Russia, who should be granted visas by the INS. In Florida CANF tried to in›uence the development of ideas by creating a fund that would match state spending on Cuban studies at Florida International University (FIU), a state school.32 After a long battle FIU refused the offer, and the program went to the University of Miami, a private institution.33 CANF also tried to set the cultural agenda for the Cuban émigré community by actively promoting the denial of visas to any performing artists from the island. In the spring of 1989, for example, the City of Chicago invited Orquesta Aragón to participate in a Latino music festival, but at CANF’s behest the State Department denied the group’s visa application.34 CANF did lose some prestige when it declared war on the Miami Her- ald, claiming that the newspaper was too critical of the foundation. Más Canosa called for a boycott of the Herald and went so far as to place advertisements to this effect on local Miami buses. These actions showed that, while he claimed to want to bring democracy to Cuba, Más Canosa was unwilling to support institutions that were part of a democratic system, such as newspapers, when they were critical of him.35 Bumper stick- ers appeared in Miami that read, “Más Canosa y Fidel Castro: la misma cosa” (the same thing). And, despite CANF’s extensive campaign, newspaper circulation did not suffer measurably. Whether CANF would have the same degree of in›uence without the aid of U.S. politicians is subject to debate, but it is clear that CANF has demonstrated enormous political clout in lobbying for its projects even when it has failed to receive the blessing of the White House. Such was the case with the development and passage of the Cuban Democracy Act, a bill that called for tightening the economic embargo of the island by prohibiting U.S. companies based outside the United States from conducting business with Cuba. Initially, the Bush administration vetoed proposed bills along this line because they posed problems for the international community by calling for U.S. subsidiaries in third countries to cease doing business with Cuba. Canada was among those that protested, arguing that, if passed, these laws would violate its national sovereignty. Canada then issued a warning that, if Canadian-based U.S. companies were prohibited from conducting business in accordance with Canadian laws, they would be expelled from Canada. Restrictions on U.S. companies in third ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 145

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countries also ran contrary to the president’s attempts to negotiate free- trade agreements with North American and Latin American countries. In response CANF formed a bipartisan congressional support group that included representatives from Florida and New Jersey. The White House reacted by restricting the unbridled access to administration of‹cials enjoyed by CANF and put out a timid call to other groups in the Cuban exile community to come forward.36 Bush was hoping to bring on board moderate groups that supported his policies but were against CANF. But, with no follow-through from the White House, the invitation fell by the wayside. Part of the problem was that the Bush administration did not understand the political landscape of the moderate and progressive sectors of the Cuban exile community. These setbacks did not dampen CANF’s efforts, and the organization proceeded with its plans. While White House support for CANF’s legislative agenda had weakened, there were plenty of congressional representatives willing to do its bidding. Momentum for comprehensive legislation to tighten the embargo grew in Congress as representatives who received large donations from “Free Cuba,” a political action committee closely tied to the foundation, either dropped their opposition to tightening the embargo (this group included senators Claiborne Pell of Rhode Island and Paul Simon of Illinois) or enthusiastically supported it, as was the case for Congressman Robert Torricelli, a Democrat from New Jersey. Torricelli was a junior legislator on the lookout for issues that could help him make his mark in Congress. Getting tough with Cuba gave him a national forum on foreign policy, and it helped his standing with New Jer- sey’s conservative Cuban community. Torricelli was instrumental in helping to draft and introduce the Cuban Democracy Act. In addition to provisions calling for the tightening of the embargo, one of the bill’s stipulations was the opening of new communication channels to Cuba, a provision put forth by AT&T, whose headquarters were located in Torri- celli’s district. The bill also outlined steps to be taken by the United States after the fall of Castro, including speci‹cs about when to begin the delivery of aid packages. Despite support for the legislation from conservative exile organizations, other groups argued that choking the island with the Cuban Democ- racy Act would produce neither democracy nor stability and urged that alternative solutions be explored. Ramon Cernuda (who would later become the target of terrorist opposition) testi‹ed, for instance, that the embargo only strengthened hard-liners in Cuba, giving Castro ammunition with which to clamp down on groups and individuals on the island pursuing change. Instead, these groups encouraged lifting the embargo. Other organizations, including the Cuban-American Committee, ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 146

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testi‹ed that the tightening of the embargo hurt Cubans in the United States who wanted to enjoy a normal relationship with their homeland. They argued that lifting the embargo would help liberalize Cuba’s policies, particularly those aimed at its communities abroad. Without the economic blockade the Cuban government would not feel as threatened and could be more open in its dealings with the Cuban exile community. Indeed, this had already occurred during the brief moment of detente in the late 1970s, when changes in Cuba’s policies toward the exile community were accompanied by political and economic openings on the island. Yet in the heat of the 1992 presidential campaign the Cuban Democ- racy Act was passed by Congress. Bush, facing a close election, signed the bill in the hope of improving his chances in Florida, a critical state. Bill Clinton, the Democratic candidate for president, endorsed the legislation prior to its signing. Both actions were surprising: Bush had previously opposed the bill, and Clinton had stressed the need to develop a post–cold war vision of the world. But the bill passed, thanks in part to donations from CANF’s political action committee. CANF had made the legislation its top priority and contributed $500,000 to key congressional representatives and candidates. In many ways this was simply money recycled from the GOP. CANF’s power was a product of a give-and-take relationship with the Republican administration. CANF would donate funds to Republican of‹cials and candidates and in turn receive lucrative government contracts. From 1984 to 1990, for instance, CANF received $780,000 from the National Endowment for Democracy, an agency whose mandate is to promote pluralism abroad. Despite protests from Miami-based groups about CANF’s antidemocratic practices and comprehensive reports in the Miami Herald questioning the use of government funds for relocation of Cuban immigrants from third countries, the Bush administration closed its eyes and continued promoting and working with CANF, locally and nationally.37 Yet, if support for the bill was a payback, the bene‹ts eluded many. The Cuban Democracy Act did not provide any new solutions but, instead, rehashed a long-standing U.S. government practice of demanding change in other countries through economic or military force. Curiously, this time around the harsh anti-Cuban rhetoric was intended to appeal to Cuban-American voters. Rather than debating issues or bringing a plural- ity of voices into their campaigns, both candidates appealed to voters through ethnic stereotypes. Ethnicity was not only a factor in bringing people together in the electoral arena; it was also a campaign method for mobilizing voters and money. Yet the approach to ethnicity taken by campaign organizers was based on simplistic stereotypes. Candidates wore ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 147

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“Mexican hats” and exploited photo opportunities with the president of Mexico when visiting San Antonio or ate black beans and rice and inveighed against Cuba when they were in Miami. Instead of ethnic lobbying, the passage of the Cuban Democracy Act was an attempt to lobby “ethnics.” Outside of an election season bills similar to the Cuban Democ- racy Act had simply failed to pass Congress or receive the president’s endorsement. For Clinton the strategy failed. He received less than 20 percent of the Cuban-American vote, only a bit more than Michael Dukakis, who had not beat the anti-Castro drums, in his bid for the presidency four years earlier. This was almost certainly less than what Clinton would have received had he developed a strategy of engaging newcomers and protecting the exiles’ relationship to homeland. According to a Gallup poll, a majority of Cuban-Americans who identify themselves as Democrats were in favor of negotiations and diplomatic relations with Cuba, were likely to visit Cuba if it were made simpler to do so, were inclined to think that the Cuban people rather than the leadership have been hurt by the embargo, were likely to have become U.S. citizens, and were likely to vote for a candidate who favored improved relations.38 With a different strategy Clinton could have become the champion of these individuals’ rights to travel, invest, and engage in activities denied to them by the Cuban government. The international reaction to the passage of the Cuban Democracy Act was as the White House had feared. The controversial U.S. law was condemned at the United Nations. The Canadian government decreed that any company violating its laws, which permit commerce with Cuba, would be asked to leave Canada. Mexico and the European Community ‹led formal protests. And, strangely enough, both Bush and a newly elected Clinton came under attack by those to whom the bill claimed it was bringing democracy: anti-Castro human rights groups in Cuba. These groups believed that the bill violated Cuba’s sovereignty by attempting to legislate democracy through a foreign government. Nonetheless, as Clin- ton assumed the presidency in January 1993, he did so bound by a relic of cold war policy. (Ironically, Roger Fontaine, who had been instrumental in helping organize CANF, now criticized the president for letting Cuban exiles run U.S. foreign policy.) Meanwhile, a multitude of groups began planning for the situation after the fall of Castro. The Cuban-American Bar Association commis- sioned the writing of a new constitution. CANF initiated a fund-raising campaign aimed at Fortune 500 companies. In return for their ‹nancial contributions companies were offered an inside track for negotiating with post-Castro political actors on the island.39 The governor of Florida com- missioned a series of working papers on the impact that the fall would ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 148

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have on south Florida, including what contingencies would be needed for police deployment on the night of the festivities.

Pro-Dialogue Forces

In part because of the void created by hard-line politics in the Cuban exile community, in the early 1970s groups emerged that began calling for a normalization of relations with the Cuban government. The ‹rst of these were organized by younger Cuban exiles who were raised outside the homeland, but later other groups formed that included people whose families had been divided by politics. When the Reagan administration came to power in 1980, the Dia- logue was already coming apart, and Reagan’s policy of confrontation with Cuba accelerated its demise. Yet with the 120,000 émigrés who came to the United States via Mariel also came a new generation of immigrants who further diversi‹ed the community. Although these émigrés resented the Cuban government for its mitines de repudio (meetings to repudiate those who were leaving), they had a very different relationship with the relatives they had left behind. So, just as the exchange programs of the late 1970s were being dismantled, a new group in the exile community was ask- ing the United States to maintain open doors to its homeland. The organizations that emerged in the late 1970s were varied. Some, such as the Antonio Maceo Brigade, made support of the revolution part of their political strategy. Others, such as the Cuban-American Commit- tee, advocated changes in U.S. policies and focused on Washington. Those with the deepest roots in the exile community were service providers, such as the travel agencies that arranged trips to Cuba. From these service providers several organizations arose in the late 1980s that mobilized Cuban émigrés with relatives in Cuba to pressure U.S. policymakers. One such organization was the Cuban-American Pro-Family Reuni‹cation Committee, headed by Carmen Díaz, a former professor at the University of Havana who left the island via Mariel in 1980.40 During the 1988 U.S. presidential campaign the group organized a breakfast meeting at which more than three thousand people supported an agenda calling for negotiations with the Cuban government. Another group, the Cuban-American Coalition, incorporated a political action committee headed by a former Jesuit priest, José Cruz. In the ‹rst weeks of its formation more than eight hundred people signed on and donated money to the PAC.41 A political activist in a similar vein was Francisco Aruca, the president of Marazul Charters, who launched a radio program in Miami to provide an alternative viewpoint to the Cuban exile right-wing establishment.42 Politically, these groups focused their activities on the U.S. govern- ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 149

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ment. While privately they advocated changes in Cuban policy, in public they were more critical of U.S. policy. Seen as sympathetic to the Cuban government, they had the trust of its of‹cials but failed to capture a wide spectrum of political support in the Cuban community. In addition, groups such as the Cuban-American Coalition became embroiled in corrupt practices such as accepting “donations” from individuals who wanted to travel to Cuba. The number of passengers allowed entrance by the Cuban government each month varied, but it was always small, and the coalition would guarantee that its donors were sold a ticket to travel to the island. Furthermore, the radio style of the head of Marazul, Aruca, was no different than that of right-wing radio personalities. People who called the radio show’s open line and disagreed with him would be yelled at and ridiculed. Many wondered what alternative he was providing. The political landscape of the community did change, however, with the emergence of organizations linked to the island-based human rights groups that began to appear in the mid-1980s. These human rights organizations included a Catholic group, Movimiento Cristiano Liberación headed by Oswaldo Paya and La Coordinadora de Derechos Humanos (the Human Rights Coordinator) led by Elizardo Sanchez. Such groups called for a political opening not only on the island but in Miami as well. The emergence of Cuba-based human rights groups and the growth of exile organizations that sought out links to the island were intimately related: without an internal opening in Cuba that allowed human rights groups to exist, the parallel phenomenon in Miami would not have occurred. The close relationship between groups abroad and internal opposition in Cuba had a tremendous impact on the development of a more contemporary political discourse in the Cuban émigré community, one that sought solutions to problems on both sides of the Florida Straits. These groups took the lead when, with the collapse of the socialist camp, discussion resurfaced within the Cuban exile community about its relationship to Cuba and the future of the island.43 In 1989 an af‹liate of the International Christian Democrats (directed by Enrique Baloyra in Miami), the Social Democrats on the island, La Coordinadora de Derechos Humanos (headed by Ramón Cernuda in Miami and Elizardo Sánchez in Cuba), and the Liberal Union (coordinated by Carlos Alberto Montaner in Madrid) coalesced to form the Democratic Platform. The groups abroad, like traditional organizations in the exile community, were militantly anti-Castro; in fact some of the leaders, such as Baloyra, had fought in the underground against the revolution. Yet, unlike the Right, they advocated a political strategy that emphasized change on the island and opposed U.S. hostilities. This placed these ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 150

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groups in the great dialogue divide on the same side as the family reuni‹cation forces sympathetic to the revolution. Yet there was a crucial distinction between the objective of these organizations and that of the pro-family groups. The pro-family organizations argued for an end to U.S. hostility in order to help democratize the island so that opposition groups could ›ourish and participate. They felt that, if Castro could not use the threat from the United States to manipulate Cuban politics, he would be forced to make political changes. In contrast, the goal of the Democratic Platform was to hasten the democratization of the island in order to end Castro’s one-man rule. The Democratic Platform was viewed with suspicion by Cuban government functionaries. The Cuban government saw the new human rights groups as tools of the United States rather than organizations truly interested in the welfare of the Cuban nation. Contributing to this perception was the manipulation of human rights issues by the United States, particularly in the United Nations, under the direction of Armando Valladares, former U.S. ambassador to the Human Rights Commission, who was now working with CANF. Yet the coherence of their political discourse and their emphasis on democracy and social justice in Cuba and Miami earned the groups that make up the Democratic Platform political legitimacy on both sides of the Florida Straits. Some, like Cernuda’s Coordinadora de Derechos Humanos, found a new following among newcomers from the island who, perhaps more than their longtime exile counterparts, understand that a post-Castro solution must include many forces but fundamentally must come from inside the island. While not all platform groups agreed with this strategy (notably Montaner’s Liberal Union), most organizations in this tradition support the position that change in Cuba should be inter- nally driven. There were many other individuals and sectors in the Cuban exile community that were not necessarily aligned with pro-dialogue forces but that supported reconstruction of a respectful relationship with the homeland. Many of these people had either been raised in the United States or had arrived recently. Some were part of the organized Left that at ‹rst had been unequivocally supportive of the Cuban revolution but later had developed a more critical perspective. Some became disillusioned with the lack of democracy within right-wing organizations and changed their philosophies accordingly. Thus, a new synthesis occurred within the Cuban exile community between a core of individuals seeking respectful engagement with Cuba and the creation of a new political culture among Cubans on and off the island. This was particularly evident among intellectuals and artists as well as younger business professionals. ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 151

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In Washington the Cuban-American Committee attempted to tap the energies of these individuals. It initiated a discussion called the Second Generation Project with the goal of ‹nding policy solutions to reconstruct a relationship between Cubans abroad and those on the island. Initially, the committee proposed a meeting to coincide with the thirtieth anniversary of the Bay of Pigs invasion to demonstrate that a new generation was coming of age that was unwilling to continue the war. But the Cuban government rejected this offer. Even the words second generation were offensive to government functionaries because they implied a de‹ance of the “‹rst generation” of Cuban leaders, principally Fidel Castro. The Second Generation Project was ultimately approved, although many of the invi- tees from the island were not allowed to participate. In some cases it was Cuba that forbade their involvement, while in others it was the U.S. government’s refusal to grant a visa that prevented participation. Nonetheless, in autumn 1991 thirty Cubans from Cuba and the United States, myself included, met on St. Simon’s island off the coast of Georgia at an event sponsored by the Cuban-American Committee. Despite the restrictions by both governments, the group was eclectic and included physicians, professors, artists, economists, businesspeople, teach- ers, and journalists ranging in age from their mid-twenties to early forties. For some it was their ‹rst trip to the United States; for others it was their ‹rst meeting with Cubans who had remained on the island. From the meeting emerged a general consensus that a relaxation of tensions between Washington and Havana would aid democratization on the island and that the time for this process was ripe given that the major points of contention between Cuba and the United States had been resolved by the end of the cold war. The group identi‹ed U.S. and Cuban policies and practices that impeded a normal relationship between those in the Cuban exile community and those on the island. We agreed to ask our respective governments to initiate discussion on the bilateral issues that deeply affected the one million Cuban exiles living in the United States as well as the ten million Cubans on the island—issues such as travel, immigration, and business, professional, and cultural exchanges. Yet there were major disagreements during the discussion of human rights, since some island-based participants felt that anyone abroad who supported Cuba’s human rights groups was an enemy of the revolution. Others, myself included, argued that, within the Cuban exile community, many who supported human rights groups also advocated dialogue with the Cuban government. Furthermore, we asserted that a close tie existed between Cuban government attitudes toward internal opposition and its policies toward those who had left, so that in order to resolve one issue the ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 152

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other had to be resolved as well. Ultimately, the Cuban-American Com- mittee opted to nurture its relationship with younger government and party functionaries rather than try to build an effective coalition in the exile community. Therefore, its effectiveness in the community—and for that matter on the island—was limited. Another important organization involved in efforts to build a process of reconciliation was the Instituto de Estudios Cubanos (Institute of Cuban Studies), headed by María Cristina Herrera, who for more than twenty-‹ve years had advocated open lines of communication across the Straits of Florida. Hers was one of the few groups that succeeded in creating a forum in which the Left and the Center came together in a series of working conferences at which participants engaged in the kind of debate that could not otherwise occur either in Cuba or in Miami. In the early 1990s members of the institute launched a research and education fund. The new organization, the Cuban Committee for Democ- racy, succeeded in bringing together long-standing members of the Demo- cratic Party such as Alfredo Duran and newly arrived intellectuals such as Madelín Cámara in an effort to create an alternative to CANF.44 Unfor- tunately, however, the group established a membership structure that required a thousand-dollar membership fee in order to have a vote—a structure not unlike that of the very organization it set out to counter.

Diverse Political Visions

Underlying the two dominant political positions in the Cuban community were various assumptions. Those who favored complete isolation assumed that the internal opposition was either too weak or too compromised by political limitations and repression to be effective, thus the impetus for change had to come from outside the island. In contrast, those who supported dialogue as a means to change the regime had contact with internal opposition groups and knew that there was an effective opposition operating on the island. These latter exile groups connected the Cuban government’s policies toward dissidents to U.S. policies. They argued that, whenever U.S. policies eased, so did Cuban government policies toward them. Without the external threat of the United States the Cuban government had no excuse not to liberalize its politics. The two exile camps also differed in their understanding of the nature of the Cuban regime. While both claimed that Cuba’s government was totalitarian, those working to harden U.S. policies against Cuba believed that the government was about to fall at any moment, whereas those with ties to internal groups argued that the political situation was far more complex. ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 153

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The controversy around whether or not to engage in dialogue with Cuba also touched on another topic: whether there was any possibility of genuine dialogue with the Cuban leadership and whether agreements reached through a process of negotiation and reconciliation would be respected. At the crux of the debate was a tremendous power struggle within the exile community as different factions and individuals positioned themselves for leadership. The essential question in this debate was what role, if any, the exile community should play in shaping the future of Cuba. The move to reengage with the island was tempered by the force of those opposed to dealing with the Cuban government. The possibility of change in Cuba reenergized those advocating a traditional exile agenda. In the spring of 1991, for instance, in response to a realignment toward the political center within the émigré community, organizations opposed to a dialogue with the Cuban government staged a march in Miami to unite the exile community. Its agenda called for no dialogue with the Cuban government.45 Something similar occurred in the autumn of 1993, when more than 100,000 people marched to support a tightening of the blockade. Both in Cuba and in the exile community discussion about the future of Cuba and U.S.-Cuban relations was extremely dif‹cult. On the island, while broad discussion took place within the process initiated by the Com- munist Party, people were publicly encouraged to unite behind a harden- ing of‹cial position that made debate or dissent dif‹cult. Human rights activists were accused of being agents of the U.S. government and were jailed under laws prohibiting the right of assembly. Across the waters the FBI named Miami the capital of U.S. terrorism, as eighteen bombs went off in the homes and businesses of Cuban exiles working to better relations with Cuba. At the same time, hard-line exile organizations accused advocates of closer relations with Cuba of being Castro government agents. Those supporting better relations with Cuba were also limited by their narrow political agenda. While criticizing U.S. policies that created obstacles to normal relations between the exile community and Cuba, they were generally silent about Cuba’s divisive policies toward the exile community. This silence diminished the possibility of forming a Left-to-Center coalition in the Cuban-American community that could effectively challenge the Right. The political center of the exile community included groups that favored democratization of Cuba and the community itself. Unlike the extreme Right, which had limited contacts in Cuba, many centrists, who were also advocates of human rights in Cuba, developed relationships with opposition groups on the island. These links had a signi‹cant impact on the politics of such groups, as they became much more in tune with what ch6.qxd 10/11/1999 10:12 AM Page 154

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was actually happening in Cuba. In addition, these human rights supporters did not present themselves as Cuba’s future leaders but, rather, recognized that the island’s future must be built from within. Nevertheless, their closeness to U.S. positions allowed the Cuban government to delegitimize them by calling them pawns of U.S. policy. Despite these constraints, this period provided relatively fertile ground for solving some of the issues that divided Cubans on and off the island. Generational changes were occurring both in the exile community and in Cuba. New arrivals brought a contemporary vision of Cuba and their relationship with their homeland to the émigré community. Miami, the city of political extremism, engendered the potential for a political culture of critical thinkers from Cuba and the United States who had not found entrance into mainstream institutions on the island or in the traditional United States émigré community. ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 155

CHAPTER 7 The End of Socialism and Cuban Miami’s Transition

The Berlin Wall was one of the icons of the Cold War. Built by the Soviets after their occupation of East Germany, the wall symbolized the great ideological divide between communism and capitalism. When East and West Berliners dismantled the concrete structure in 1989, everyone anticipated the quick downfall of the socialist camp, including Cuba.1 As communist governments fell, the debate was about which one would collapse next. Those of us on the U.S. side of the aquatic divide between Miami and Havana asked not only whether Cuba would be next but also if and when Cuban exile Miami would fall.2 At the time, according to the 1990 census, 675,786 of the over one million Cubans in the United States lived in Florida, most of them in Miami. In this chapter I explore Miami’s transition in the early 1990s and the Cuban government’s response to this phenomenon. This period is framed by the dramatic, increased exodus of thousands of Cubans in handmade rafts and the U.S. government’s decision to reverse its open-door policy.

Cuban Miami: Myth and Reality

Miami is, in effect, the capital of the exile community. Despite concerted, well-funded efforts by federal, state, and local governments to relocate Cubans out of Miami, by 1980 more than half of the Cubans who had come to the United States were living there. By 1990 more than a million Latinos lived in Miami; Cubans made up close to 70 percent of this group. The geographic concentration of Cubans in south Florida has contributed to both their economic and political power.3 Miami conjures up many images. In 1967 National Geographic called Cuban refugees the “golden exiles” who were successfully building a city in south Florida. As hopes of returning to Cuba faded and émigrés settled into their new lives in the United States, the image of Miami changed. Eventually, the golden exiles found that they too could be victims of discrimination and low-paying jobs, just like other Latin Americans before

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SHIPMENTS

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them. In the 1970s, as the Watergate scandal unfolded and the inner work- ings of Cuban terrorism came to light, the portrait of Miami as the beacon of freedom gave way to an image of the city as a haven for right-wing Latin American extremism. The rise of political violence at the end of the 1970s added to the public image of the intolerant exile. Books, such as Joan Did- ion’s Miami, caricatured the cubanazos and their wives with red-lacquered nails obsessed with la lucha (the struggle).4 With the dramatic exodus from Cuba of more than 120,000 immigrants through the port of Mariel in 1980, the impression of a model community was tarnished by reports from both Cuba and the United States of the high number of criminals purportedly present among this migration. By the late 1980s, when college students were asked what images came to mind when they thought of Miami, they would commonly cite drugs and crime, post-Mariel impressions popularized in the prime-time television show, “Miami Vice,” or in books such as Penny Lernoux’s In Banks We Trust.5 Toward the end of the 1980s the shifting nature of the city caught the imagination of several writers. T. D. Allman, in Miami: City of the Future, talks about the city as a state of mind.6 The exiles’ tenacity in holding onto their heritage disturbed others, such as David Rieff, who asked in so many words, “Why are you still Cuban?”7 For Cuban exiles Miami has its own set of myths and realities, all intimately tied in one way or another to the island. In some ways Miami is the closest place on earth to Havana. Ten percent of Cuba’s population lives there, and the city could become home to another 10 to 20 percent of the island’s residents in the coming years, as immigrants from the island arrive daily. It is a border town—a place in which political and cultural discourse revolves around homeland in ways uncommon to other cities in the United States. And Miami is a backdrop against which foreign and domestic policies are played out continually. In other ways Miami is as far from Havana as one can get. It is a place in which Kafkaesque metamorphoses occur daily, as people who were de‹ned as traitors are transformed into heroes by a thirty-minute airplane ›ight—or, from the Cuban perspective, from heroes into gusanos. It is a place in which world politics and local power groups prey on people’s most intimate longings. It is a city in which the desire to relate to one’s homeland has been treated as an act of betrayal. Miami is a city in which antagonistic chapters of Cuban history coex- ist in the same geographic space. It is one of the few places in the world where former enemies mingle so closely, as Batistianos who were part of the prerevolutionary regime cohabit with disillusioned Fidelistas who were once their opponents and with recent immigrants who were part of the revolutionary regime. Yet, because of all this, Miami may be a place ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 159

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where the history of the revolution can be recovered. Miami has become a depository of the island’s political memory. Paradoxically, Miami is also a place in which many of Cuba’s internal battles have been fought out. In 1957 the Cuban House of Representatives declared Miami home to “gangster acts as frequent as they are reprehensi- ble,” and the mayor of Havana censured Miami as an unsafe city. These statements were a response to several incidents in which anti-Batista activists had beaten up their opponents.8 After the Cuban revolution U.S. and Cuban policies continued to fuel a political culture of intolerance. Miami emerged as the product of a standoff between two superpowers on the brink of nuclear war—a city in the clutches of international and national security interests. Miami was one of the training grounds for this war; both the United States and Cuba, for example, have long had intelligence operations in the city.9 The culture of intolerance has led to acts of repression not only against those who support better relations with the island but also against artists, musicians, playwrights, and others whose political loyalty did not meet whatever rigid standards had been set. These acts have included the cancellation of concerts by Brazil’s Denise Kalafe, Puerto Rico’s Andy Montañez, Venezuela’s Oscar de León, and Spain’s La Massiel because they all had performed in Cuba. Others, such as playwright Dolores Prida and singer and actor Rubén Blades, had visited the island and therefore were censured as well.10 Miami is also home to many who have been victims of censorship and repression. Thousands of former political prisoners live in the city. Each has sons and daughters, wives or husbands, mothers and fathers, relatives and friends. Their imprisonment is a collective tragedy for the community. It was within this context that many young Cuban exiles who had supported the ‹ght against South African apartheid and criticized the leadership of the exile community for not joining in this support were disap- pointed in 1990, when Nelson Mandela refused to recognize that in Cuba, too, there were political prisoners.11

Exile and Island Second-Generation Encounters

Despite the institutionalization of a culture of intolerance, changes were occurring in the exile community related to the coming of age of a new generation in exile and the increased migration of the “children of the revolution.” For many exiles among the “one-and-a-halvers” (as sociologist Ruben Rumbeaut calls those born in Cuba and raised in the United States) and the second generation, the political rhetoric of both the old exile political elite and the institutional Left had little to offer. Their lives were now ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 160

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in Miami, although many had a burning desire to get to know their homeland and the parts of themselves that had been left behind. There is much debate among social scientists about the differences between members of this generation and their parents. Some have found signi‹cant differences in political positions but not in regard to reestablishing relations with Cuba.12 Others have noted that younger Cubans tend to be more supportive of policy options that favor engagement with the island.13 Undoubt- edly, the exploration of home country and culture is a central concern of this generation. And, while this does not translate to support for the Cuban government, it does suggest a more open attitude toward island culture. Young writers like Lydia Martin traveled to Cuba and wrote moving accounts of their encounters with relatives.14 Tina Rathbone recounted her discovery of her Cuban heritage on a trip to the island.15 An increased desire to learn about “Cubanness” spawned a cultural movement that found its strongest expression ‹rst in music—particularly a rediscovery of “old” Cuban music16 and the mixture of sounds that characterized per- formers like Miami Sound Machine, Willie Chirino, and Nils Lara.17 Out- side of Miami painters, visual artists, and writers emerged who were also grappling with their multiple points of cultural reference. Cuba was the roots and the backdrop, rather than the centerpiece, of daily existence for this generation. The Cuba presented to them by both the Castro government and anti-Castro groups had little signi‹cance in their lives. This generation was focused on Miami, not as a point of transit but as a place to build. Many became the ‹rst Cuban-Americans at their jobs. As their presence in mainstream and citywide organizations increased, their voices began to be heard. In addition, Cubans raised outside of Miami began to return to the city. This reverse migration brought a wave of more liberal exiles. Modesto Maidique, president of Florida International University, built up the faculty by recruiting Cubans trained in universities outside of Florida with the explicit purpose of bringing in more moderate voices. The result was that a more liberal exile generation was institutionally poised to rethink its identity. The Mariel generation was also coming of age. Many of their number provided the talent that made possible the launching of a Spanish daily newspaper run by the Miami Herald, making them particularly in›uential. The founding of this newspaper contributed to breaking the monolithic hold that the intransigent wing of the Cuban political spectrum had maintained over the written press. Each exile subgroup published its own peri- odiquito, which bombarded the public continually; El Nuevo Herald provided a more professional news standard. Radio stations continued to play ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 161

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the role of “‹ring squad,” shooting down any viewpoint opposed to the conservative opinions dominant in the exile community. Other news out- lets, however, began to allow more disparate voices to be heard. The overall tone of the city began to change little by little. This is the environment in which an in›ux of Cuban exiles arrived during the late 1980s and early 1990s. Increasing repression on the island made returning to Cuba more dif‹cult for intellectuals who had been abroad.18 More than four thousand Cuban intellectuals, musicians, and artists had moved to Mexico, Spain, or other neutral “third spaces” in search of an alternative to the options of island or exile.19 But the fear that they might be recalled to the island led many to move to Miami, reluc- tantly at ‹rst. Some crossed the Rio Grande on the backs of coyotes whose passengers were more likely to be Mexico’s poor than the Cuban revolution’s cultural elite. Miami became home for a new wave of exiles: the children of the Cuban revolution. Unlike past waves of émigrés, who were dismissed by the Cuban government as the ancien régime or as outcasts of the new one, this swell of exiles contained the revolution’s own cultural elite, who criticized the government not for its leftist ideology or inef‹cient governance but because it had betrayed its own nationalist and socialist principles. (This generation did not realize that many who had left in the 1960s had felt the same way.) While many in Miami were at ‹rst suspicious of the new émigrés,20 they were greeted warmly by the second generation in exile, which was thirsty for island culture and economically able to buy their products. While Albita Rodriguez, a singer, ‹rst played to small crowds of young women at the Centro Vasco, before long she had become a sensa- tion in the community and throughout the United States.21 The result was the emergence of a locus of cultural production in the very place identi‹ed by the Cuban government as the headquarters of the counterrevolution. In the city the new émigrés had been taught to hate—and that had been taught to hate them—the children of the revolution met the children of original exiles. Like their island counterparts, many young Miami Cubans also rejected the dominant political culture of their community, including the prescribed ways in which the two sides were expected to deal with each other. The result was an intense search for new ways of rethinking Cuban identity, art, and politics. The fruits of this encounter were evident in the resurgence of cultural activities in Miami—for instance, in ‹lm festivals organized by Alejandro Ríos, formerly a television ‹lm critic in Cuba, at Miami Dade Community College, whose vice president belonged to Miami’s more open-minded generation. Recent arrivals gave experi- mental theater presentations. Critics like Armando Correa and Antonio Evora, who were close to cultural developments on the island, wrote in El ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 162

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Nuevo Herald and Exito about alternative expressions emerging in Cuba. These activities contributed to bringing island culture to Miami. Particularly impressive was the encounter between visual artists from the island and exiles. Visual art had been a natural medium of expression in both places. In the United States a generation raised in two languages found visual art, unconstrained by text, to be a rich avenue for its creativ- ity. The generation raised on the island understood that visual art was a means of expression that was harder to censure than the written word. As artists from the Generación de los 80s began to arrive in Miami, important visual art exhibitions began to be organized. Not surprisingly, much of the cultural debate in Miami—especially that carried out through visual art forms—re›ected cultural issues on the island. One exhibit emblematic of the new Miami was “Arte Cubana,” a show by twelve Cuban women from the island and abroad that opened at Miami’s Museo Cubano de Arte y Cultura in November 1993.22 One work in the show was Quisqueya Hernández’s Spiral, a series of sculptures and photographs consisting of a complex set of twists and turns—the visual representation of dialectics in a one-dimensional form—suggesting a critique of the manner in which the Cuban leadership ›attened the essence of Marxism. A similar message was found in her In‹nitas Formas de Tránsito, a long hor- izontal metal sculpture resembling an alphabet in which all things are always in motion (or should be)—a message with symbolic meaning on both sides of the Florida Straits. Hernández’s work provided Miami a window through which to observe intimate island discourse and thus disturbed the prevailing notion of a static island. In turn this forced Miami to rethink its own ideological parameters and its place in the future of the island. The immediate effect of having a once-divided generation inhabit the same geographic space has been to shorten the distance between Miami and Havana. However shortened, the journey across still would not be easy, as Teresita Fernández’s one-room installation at the Museo’s exhibit intimated. In an almost completely white room her unevenly sketched, stacked tiles ‹lled the walls, creating an uncomfortable impression of being in a familiar place, like a public restroom. A basin or urinal pro- trudes at waist level from a stained wall. Inside, a line of rotten fruitlike sculptures intensify in color as they near the center. Fernandez, a Miami- born artist, wanted her viewers to reexamine familiar spaces and objects. She believes that each individual has the power to interpret his or her own life and questions any single authority that claims to interpret history for us all.23 While this perspective empowers individuals, it also makes each of us responsible for rethinking those things we take for granted—a process that is always painful. ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 163

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For a time something new was in the making as a single generation that grew up divided discovered its other half in Miami. Artists, critics, and scholars from various émigré generations began to share experiences with one another.24 We discovered that we listened to the same music— The Beatles, for instance (although in the United States our parents had said they were communists, while Cuban parents had called them imperi- alists). We also read the same theorists—Herbert Marcuse, Jürgen Haber- mas, and Antonio Gramsci—who likewise were either communists or ideological deviants, depending on which side of the Florida Straits you were raised. Our island counterparts had broken away from Cuba’s power structure only to ‹nd it replicated in exile, just as we broke away from the exile power structure only to ‹nd its mirror image on the island. A similar quest, a mutual disillusionment, a parallel political vision, and a shared generational experience across borders promised to create common ground. Yet differences were also present. The generational unity that had been forged on the island dissipated in a market-driven economy that did not always reward talent. The group of recently arrived artists and writers began to disintegrate, for few public institutions in Miami could replace the resources that the Cuban government had dedicated to their work in the past. Furthermore, those of the generation who were raised on the island—particularly the most recent arrivals who had lived through el período especial en tiempo de paz (the special peacetime period, a euphemism for the Cuban government’s severe cutbacks in electricity, services, goods, and food)—wanted little to do with American-style politics or debate. Everything “political,” to them, smacked of power and oppor- tunism. For those raised in the United States, however, political struggle over issues of identity was a matter of survival. Because the island group did not come from a culture that allowed political protest in its many forms, the differences were accentuated. There was little understanding of identity politics—in particular, the search for roots and women’s voices that were integral parts of the identity of Cubans raised in the United States. Artistic critiques of U.S. cultural discourse were present in “Cubana” yet were not understood by many recent arrivals. Elizabeth Mesa-Gaido’s multimedia installation, for example, portrayed a ship with severed trunks above the hull and thick roots underneath, accompanied by a video projection of images of hands digging and a soundtrack of the artist’s mother and relatives discussing their journey to the States and their lives after the migration. Her need to understand her mother’s journey was also a way of understanding her past and recuperat- ing her roots. ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 164

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Many in the island group wanted to break away, not reengage with Cuba. Those who had just left Cuba began to look to the United States, addressing topics of biculturalism and border identities. For instance, Consuelo Castañeda’s U.S. work, exhibited in the spring of 1995, was entitled On Becoming Bilingual. It re›ected an initial attempt to engage in contemporary host country debate and at the same time criticize the narrowness of Cuba’s of‹cial policy of denationalizing its recent exiles. But the early efforts of artists of this generation to explore host country issues were not as sophisticated as their work about the island had been, perhaps because of a lack of contact with other Latinos who had been engaged in these debates for two decades or perhaps because their Cuban Miami public was not ready to accept the immigrant part of its identity. Cubans who had been in the United States for some time, in contrast, were beginning to consider issues of return and questions of what role the exile community could play both in home and host countries. These themes had been examined in the earlier works of artists, such as former Chicago resident Nereida García, who painted colorful canvases that af‹rmed her Cuban identity and spoke simultaneously of the pain of her exile. (The fact that she lives in the United States has prevented Garcia from exhibiting her work on the island, while her returns to Cuba have resulted in her exclusion from important U.S. shows, such as “Outside Cuba,” the ‹rst retrospective work of Cuban exile art.) Garcia’s work initially focused on her desire to return to the island. Yet, as the option of return was denied, many émigré artists, Garcia included, began to search for ways of reconciling their host and home country experiences. From this quest emerged a broader conceptualization of identity and a desire to merge the disparate parts into one. Artist María Martínez Cañas pieced together Lam-like montages of photographic neg- atives of different components of her identity, including her body and Puerto Rico. Her late 1990s work came to terms with her present as photographs of her physical surroundings took the place of past images.25 Writer Cristina García, in her novel Dreaming in Cuban, concludes her story with a letter from Celia, the grandmother who stayed in Cuba, written to her lover, Gustavo. Celia writes of Pilar, her granddaughter who eventually goes into exile, “She will remember everything.”26 Exiles, then, are assigned the role of remembering for the nation. This de‹es the passive role commonly ascribed to those who leave their homeland. It further challenges the standard prediction that, upon arriving in the United States, the exile’s homeland would be forgotten. This broader conception of identity has also been prominent in various academic projects. During the summer of 1994 the Instituto de Estu- dios Cubanos held a conference of scholars representing more than forty ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 165

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years of Cuban intellectual history. Included among the attendees were academics both from Cuba and from the exile community. Only of‹cial Cuban academics refused to participate, stating that they would not sit at the same table with “dissidents.” Also in 1994 Ruth Behar and Juan León edited two issues of the Michigan Quarterly entitled “Bridges to Cuba,” which contained a range of voices extending not only from the island to the exile but also from the of‹cial to the marginalized.27 In October 1997 the Cuban Research Institute of Florida International University held its ‹rst conference that included a broad range of scholars and writers from the island and from various exile communities. Clearly, the same could not occur on the island.

The Cuban Government Responds

These encounters and mutual self-discoveries contributed to the theoretical debate about identity and politics in home and host countries. The island, however, was much slower in opening up to its exiles than the United States had been. By 1994, for example, only one Cuban exile artist, Natalia Raphael, had exhibited her work in Cuba. Raphael’s showing was in Matanzas, whose cultural community often avoids the capitol’s political battles and censures. Matanzas was also home to Vigia, a hand-assembled literary journal that never excluded exiled writers. In contrast, in 1993 Gaceta, the publication of the of‹cial Union of Writers and Artists (UNEAC), published a special section on Cuban-American writers in which it emphasized the differences between those who had stayed and those who had left. The publication also failed to discuss the works of writers who had recently left the island. In Cuba the government responded to the exodus of its cultural elite by trying not only to deterritorialize them by banishing them from the island but also to denationalize them by labeling them non-Cubans. Those who continued to leave were betraying not the revolution but, rather, the nation: they were not called counterrevolutionaries, as in the early 1960s, but anti-Cuban (the political term used was annexationist and the sociological term assimilated). Political dissenters were considered non-Cuban, and exile was their punishment. In an extremely defensive editorial announcing more visits by exiles, Granma stated, “we reiterate that under no circumstances will authorities permit anyone linked to anti-Cuban activity to return to national territory.”28 The challenge posed to this exclusive de‹nition of Cuban identity was, in part, at the root of the Cuban government’s refusal to de‹ne culture outside the island’s geographic boundaries as “Cuban.” To accept that Cuban culture could be created outside its national borders was to ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 166

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concede that the nation had grown larger than state boundaries permit. The state had lost control of the nation. Ironically, a country whose identity was precisely a product of cultural inclusiveness had little tolerance for political or ideological diversity. Despite of‹cial unwillingness to engage in a more open rede‹nition of Cuban culture, informal debate about what constituted “Cubania” ensued across the Florida Straits. For instance, widely circulated in Havana during the summer of 1993 was Mirta Ojito’s Miami Herald article, in which she reported that most of Havana’s artistic community could be found min- gling with second-generation Cuban exiles at Friday night gallery openings and concluded that Miami was more Cuban than the island itself.29 Independent intellectuals on the island found Ojito’s argument over- stated: after all, Havana was still there, along with the palms, el Malecon (the seawall), la brisa (sea breeze), and important intellectuals and artists. At the same time, however, these writers admitted that Cuban culture on the island was in jeopardy. Since the fall of the socialist camp, the government had been engaged in the unthinkable: catering to foreign capitalists and tourists. The result was an explosion of commercial entertainment for tourists—including the emergence of prostitutes of all ages, genders, and colors—that eroded the sense of nation brought about by the revolution. Many of the contemporaries of these intellectuals had left the island, and many still remaining were scheming of ways to leave as well. In search of alternatives island intellectuals were curious about the persistent sense of Cubania in the exile community. But, even while many admitted that Cuban culture could be created outside national boundaries, many were not willing to consider literature written by Cubans in English as part of the body of Cuban literature.30 Moreover, pressure to resolve Cuba’s war with its community abroad started to come from other sectors in Cuban society. As economic dif‹culties mounted, people across the island demanded that solutions be found. With economic collapse under way on the island, the ongoing ‹ght with the community was seen as detri- mental to Cuban interests. The Catholic Church on the island and in exile was among those organizations that supported the call for national reconciliation and a dialogue.31 The Cuban government also faced international pressure to talk to its exiles, as was being done by the Palestinians and Israelis, Koreans, and Salvadoreans, whose divisions had been fueled by the cold war. Although one response was that the Cuban situation was different because Cubans were geographically divided,32 the Cuban government was encouraged to show that it was dealing with the community. The island government ‹nally responded to this internal and external pressure, and a two-track policy was initiated: one for the diplomatic world, implemented through ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 167

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the Ministry of Foreign Relations, and a second within the intellectual world, through the University of Havana and UNEAC.

Official Dialogue Revisited

In the spring of 1994 Cuba’s Ministry of Foreign Relations hosted a conference entitled “La nacion y la emigracion” (The Nation and Its Émi- grés).33 The tone of the event was evident early on. Jorge Gomez Barata, the of‹cial in charge of the Communist Party’s powerful Departamento de Orientacion de Revolucionaria (the party’s ideologial czar) was quoted as saying, “For us the meeting in April is conceived of as a political project to kick the ›oor out from underneath the counterrevolution . . . fragment its discourse, and isolate it in the heart of the immigration.”34 For others it was a way to show the world that Cuba, too, could deal with its “dissidents.” The public relations aim of the event was clear, as the production of images proved more important than its substance. On the ›ight to Havana, for instance, those of us attending the conference were shown a videotape, laced with nostalgic music, about the upcoming event: where we would stay and meet, opinions on the conference from “people in the street,” and interviews with Monsignor Carlos Manuel de Cespedes and Elizardo Sanchez, a leading human rights activist, cautiously supporting the effort. Oddly, although they could be included in the television production, these leaders were not invited to the conference. Most human rights activists and other key individuals in Cuba and the exile community were excluded as well. For instance, María Cristina Hererra, director of the Instituto de Estudios Cubanos, and Marifeli Pérez-Stable, president of its board and founder of Areito and the Antonio Maceo Brigade, were not invited because they had signed a letter condemning the Cuban Democ- racy Act that also had been signed by island-based human rights activists. Conference organizers chose the term emigrant over exile.35 Emi- grants, somehow, de‹ed the existence of exiles or the notion of diaspora. And, while individuals had various reasons for moving to the United States, the social structure that emerged among the Cuban émigré community was not the product of these motivations alone. The Cuban exile, after all, was until recently swayed by comparatively favorable immigration policies in the United States and the lack of meaningful options for dissent on the island. Moreover, decisions about the conference were made unilaterally.36 The agenda was narrow and missed essential topics. Substantive discussion was discouraged; participants were required to write down their questions, while a moderator chose which ones to pass on to the government of‹cials ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 168

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on the podium. One participant’s comment that Cuban history had been forged by a spirit of inclusion and that we needed to go beyond the exclusionary practices that had been imposed by a single authority for the past thirty-‹ve years was met with hostility.37 Radical suggestions went unan- swered, such as the idea that family members on the island be permitted to use remittances for investments (this might have been a vehicle through which exiles could play an important role in helping to decentralize and bolster the economy). Questions and complaints dominated the meetings. It became evident that Cubans from almost thirty countries around the world had problems with the Cuban government similar to those of their U.S. counterparts—problems that could not be explained simply by the U.S. blockade. Furthermore, there was an almost cynical lack of attention to the history of Cuba’s policies toward the communities abroad. The con- vocation to the conference began by mentioning the 1978 dialogue and then skipping immediately to the present.38 The sixteen years that had elapsed, during which the Cuban government itself had implemented policies that barred the community from the island, simply disappeared. The backdrop to the three days of meetings was a battle raging among different factions in Cuba over who would handle relations with the exile community. These battles were not new. But added to the traditional actors within the bureaucracy who in the past had competed for control over programs dealing with the community abroad was a group of Young Communist Party members whose former secretary-general had just been named to head the Foreign Ministry. The stakes in this bureaucratic warfare had risen as well. Not only would the faction that gained control of the “community project” acquire power, information, and resources, but it would also have access to remittances sent to Cuba by exiles estimated at worth over $500 million a year—at the time the second largest component of Cuba’s gross national product after tourism.39 Policies toward the exile community would also have profound consequences for the internal reordering of politics, economics, and ideology on the island. Not surprisingly, the conference ended with a ‹asco. A private reception with Fidel Castro was videotaped without the consent of the participants. An edited version of the reception line that showed exiles ›irting with and lauding Fidel Castro, as well as edited conversations, was sold to the international press by Raul Taladri, a press agent who worked with the Ministry of the Interior. The week before the conference participants had left for Havana through the Miami airport without incident, a sign that the intransigent forces of the exile community were in decline. But the prospect of an émigré community that was more rational, more comprehensive, and more inclusive than the Cuban government was exactly what those opposed to a reconciliation process in Cuba wanted to destroy. ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 169

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Many suspected that the sale of the video was calculated to divide the émigré community and resurrect its intransigent elements at the expense of reformers on both sides of the Florida Straits who were calling for an end to the embargo as well as the democratization of the exile community and the island. Cuban government hard-liners did not want an opening toward the community abroad, nor did they want a more open community on the island. Indeed, conference events called into question the entire strategy of “dialogue” with government of‹cials. In the next year two more attempts at political discussion with the Cuban government went nowhere. In the summer of 1994 Roberto Robaina met with international representatives of the various dissident groups on the island.40 Ramon Cernuda, representative for La Coordinadora de Organi- zaciones de Derechos Humanos, noted that this was the ‹rst time that the Cuban government had spoken with members of the opposition.41 The following summer Fidel Castro met with Eloy Gutiérrez Menoyo, who had led the ‹ght against him in the Segundo Escambray in the mid-1960s. As dramatic as these gestures were, no political changes came of them. Enrique Patterson, one of the intellectuals who had been part of the island’s human rights movement, correctly warned that any solo attempts to negotiate with Castro would fail. What was truly needed, he suggested, was to organize a broad-based process for a peaceful transition.42 In spite of of‹cial policies, increased contact between Cubans from the island and Cubans in exile contributed to the gradual erosion of the divide between the two groups. First had come the visits to the island in the 1970s. Then came the Mariel immigration, which contributed to reengagement, especially when the Mariel generation started to come of age. Barriers ‹rst came down within families. In the late 1990s, as the economic situation on the island deteriorated, many exiles in Miami were moved to help their relatives on the island. These efforts continued to be tainted by the Cuban government’s attempt to pro‹t from the exiles’ assistance. Cuba insisted, for instance, that money transfers be conducted via Cuban banks that undervalued the price of the U.S. dollar and ‹xed the exchange rate far below the black market value (a rate that was closer to the international market value). The willingness of Miami residents to help their island relatives found expression in the moderating politics of the community. Those opposed to sending aid to Cuba were increasingly isolated.43 (Two years later, when Hurricane Lili hit Cuba, even the Cuban-American National Foundation joined a community drive to send aid to Cuba.)44 But there were few political or social organizations that had the legitimacy to organize the community to help the island, since the groups supporting family reuni‹cation were closely connected to organizations with close ties to the Cuban gov- ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 170

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ernment, which, of course, had created the policies that divided families in the ‹rst place. A year after the spring conference the Ministry of Foreign Relations began publishing a magazine for Cuban émigrés called, ironically, La Gran Familia.45 And, while encouraging groups in exile to pressure the U.S. government to ease its policies toward Cuba, the Cuban government repressed any attempts at pressure on itself from exile organizations or groups on the island. Therefore, the family reconciliation groups had little in›uence on the community. The community and the island both suffered from the lack of political solutions to unmet human needs.

Who Is Cuban?

The second track of Cuban policy toward the community involved retak- ing the reins of the identity debate. Abel Prieto, president of UNEAC, was put in charge of the effort, along with the Ministry of the Interior’s University of Havana–based CEAP. The center was now directed by Milagros Martínez, who had moved from the Ministry of Foreign Rela- tions, where one of her tasks had been to accompany intellectuals to conferences to prevent their defections. In response to Miami newspaper headlines claiming that Miami was more Habanero than Havana, Prieto declared that the Aleph (Jorge Luis Borges’s concept of a zone through which all moments of history and humanity can be seen simultaneously) of Cuban culture was still on the island.46 Although Prieto advocated a nondogmatic approach to de‹ning what was Cuban, he still insisted on geography as an essential criteria. This geographic construction of culture was to be asserted repeatedly as island bureaucracies clumsily attempted to control the debate. Cuban of‹cials resisted any attempts to unite intellectuals and artists from the island and abroad. For instance, José Toriac’s proposal for a seminar and art exhibit that would bring together Cuban visual artists from the island and abroad, including some who had recently left, was denied in 1993.47 Even Lourdes Grobet’s photographs of young exiles were censured from an art exhibit in the 1994 Havana Biennial. In addition, Prieto rejected a proposal by a Latin American Studies Association working group inviting island intellectuals to participate in a Miami conference on Cuban identity that was to include artists and intellectuals who had left the island in the early 1990s. Later, in the spring of 1995, Prieto would refuse to transmit the papers necessary for travel, in effect denying exit to island artists who were invited to participate in a Barcelona conference called “Cuba: la isla posible” (Cuba: The Possible Island) organized by Ivan de la Nuez, a leading cultural critic, who had recently left.48 Nei- ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 171

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ther would government of‹cials process requests by Vigia to invite “foreigners” (including Cuban exiles) to its ten-year anniversary celebration. Finally, Memoria de la posguerra, an island-based newsletter that had published two issues and included articles by Cubans on and off the island, was abruptly shut down by island security agents. Unlike of‹cial publications, Memoria provided a different vision of those leaving by engaging in a re›ective and critical discussion not only of the younger generation’s exodus but also of the insular nature of the culture within Cuba, or the internal exile.49 The of‹cial response to such activities was to organize a Conference on National Identity in Cuba cosponsored by UNEAC and the University of Havana. Again, key intellectuals from the island and exile community were not invited. Clearly, there was great preoccupation among of‹cial intellectuals in rede‹ning the parameters of the identity debate for both internal and external reasons.50 The orthodox de‹nition of Cuban culture, based on the ideological commitment to patria, was anachronistic in light of the regime’s need to survive economically. The patria, some argued, needed capable administrators, not military heroes. Furthermore, as Cuban culture eroded on the island, it seemed to ›ourish in the exile community. The paradigm of the revolution was still nationalism, so to admit that Cubanness might be even more present in exile than on the island was to admit defeat. In this context it seemed curious when island-based psychologists proposed that identity was neither a historical construct nor an ideological one and argued that nationalism was a mere sentiment. This way they could avoid the dif‹cult debate about politics. Despite what could be considered a more inclusive de‹nition of Cubanness—that is, anyone who felt Cuban could be considered Cuban—the of‹cial policy on encounters with Cubans off the island continued to become more and more restrictive. For example, Prieto announced that from then on conferences on Cuban identity in third countries—Spain or Mexico, for instance—would have to be held on the island. Not only was the construction of identity geographically based, but it also collapsed the notions of state and nation as though there were no distinction between the two. In effect, encounters would be permitted only if they were managed by state bureaucrats.

Increased Immigration and Its Backlash: The End of the Symbolic Refugee

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that would change the legal framework and migratory practices that had facilitated Cuban immigration. In the spring of 1994,51 in response to Cas- tro’s threat of encouraging rafters to leave the island52 and under election- year pressure, President Clinton ceased the long-standing policy of accepting all Cubans who entered the United States. The U.S. government began to incarcerate anyone who attempted to enter U.S. territory at its naval base in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Fearing the exile community’s reaction to his new policy, Clinton tried to appease its hard-liners by issuing regulations prohibiting the transfer of remittances and restricting all travel to Cuba, except by reporters and those with Treasury Department licenses for which only researchers or those responding to extreme cases of humanitarian need were eligible to apply. Ironically, the Clinton administration did exactly what hard-liners in the Cuban government had been advocating: shutting the doors between exiles and the island. Even more ironic was the fact that the right wing of the exile community reached a pact with the Clinton administration: in exchange for get- tough policies against Cuba, they showed themselves willing to sell out the rafters. Thus, amid the anti-immigrant hysteria of key gubernatorial elections in 1994 Cuban exiles lined up with those who called for the deporta- tion of all immigrants. Foreign policy priorities were deemed more important than an immigrants’ rights agenda. But the policy back‹red. The added economic hardship resulting from the new regulations only increased discontent on the island. Rafters continued to sail out to sea, reasoning that after a stay at Guantanamo they would be allowed into the United States. Instead of providing the ‹nal measure of pressure that would cause the Castro government to crumble, the new U.S. policy gave Castro added ammunition with which to blast the United States for causing the island’s economic crisis. At the same time, he continued to allow rafters to leave the Cuban coast, even encouraging the ›ow. In May 1995 Clinton announced a new policy of intercepting Cuban rafters at sea and returning them to Cuba. Just as CANF had supported the detention camps in Guantanamo Bay in return for tougher sanctions, the Cuban Committee for Democracy, a more liberal group, gave its consent to the new policy in return for a promise of easing sanctions. Again, foreign policy matters, not immigrants’ rights, dominated the agenda of political groups in the Cuban community. One organization came to the aid of the rafters, Hermanos al Rescate (Brothers to the Rescue). Its pilots volunteered to ›y small planes over the Florida Straits and alert the Coast Guard when rafters were sighted. The new policy of interception and return shocked the exile commu- ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 173

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nity. While some of the outcry simply may have been a reaction to being excluded from Washington’s policy discussion, the decision, made in connection with bringing the Guantanamo detainees to the United States, unearthed a multitude of questions about the place of the Cuban exile community in both the host and home countries. Cuban exiles, it seemed clear, were no longer welcome in the United States. While the raison d’être for exile had not changed—in fact, repression was increasing on the island—the symbolic place that Cuban exiles had held in U.S. policy was gone. When the United States was at war (albeit a cold war) with the former Soviet Union, refugees coming to the United States demonstrated to the world that the U.S. political and economic system was better than others. The special place once assigned to Cuban refugees in the United States was not due to Cuba’s lack of democracy but was a function of a world power struggle between two empires. (If democracy had been the primary concern, refugees of the Batista regime in the 1950s would have been treated as heroes in the United States. They were not; in fact, many were “illegal aliens” who lived in constant fear of depor- tation.) When the Soviet Union collapsed, the context that gave meaning to the symbolism of the Cuban exile collapsed as well. The question was why the exile community never realized that it was being used as a symbol. Part of the answer lies in understanding the many components of this tightly knit political mythology. The symbolic value of refugees ›eeing communism was coupled with the myth that we were welcome in the United States. But a hard look at history shows that, more often than not, we had not been welcomed. This is not to deny the opportunities and privileges given Cuban exiles in Miami, particularly in com- parison to other refugees such as Haitians, but, rather, to examine criti- cally the claim that now we had been betrayed.53 In the early 1960s Cubans had been admitted to the United States by way of visa waivers. Immigra- tion policy had not been changed, only circumvented. It was clear that attempts to change the law would have been met by stiff opposition from Congress and local communities. To understand that the American public did not wholeheartedly support the program to harbor refugees of communism, one needs only to review local reaction at the time. Moreover, the operating assumption during this period was that we would all be returning to Cuba soon. When it became clear that the Castro government would not fall immediately, however, the doors slammed shut. From 1962 to 1965 few Cubans were let in. People working with the underground were told from one day to the next that the policy had changed. In 1965 Castro, not the United States, opened the door that led to the freedom ›ights via Camarioca. For Castro exiles also have been expendable capital, as long as their exodus did not have an uncontrollable ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 174

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boomerang effect that would create an irreversible crisis of legitimacy for the government. By the mid-1960s it was fairly clear that Castro was around to stay and so were the exiles. The Cuban Adjustment Act came as an after- thought in order to “legalize” what the State Department had done “illegally” in the early 1960s: issue hundreds of thousands of visa waivers to Cubans on the island. Again, the lack of support for Cuban exiles became evident when Castro canceled the freedom ›ights in 1973 and the Republi- can administration did not try to reopen the doors. When the Carter administration made human rights a cornerstone of its foreign policy, it reignited the debate about lack of freedom of speech and movement in Cuba, and, again, the doors were opened slightly. But, as before, the American public was not supportive of this policy. Deep divisions, even within the administration, resulted in an impasse that ‹nally contributed to the dramatic events of Mariel in 1980. Marielitos were welcomed with open hearts and arms only for a brief period. The subsequent images are those of refugees in detention centers across the United States. U.S. ambivalence toward Cuban refugees showed itself again in the summer of 1994 against a sharper backdrop: the tragic loss of human lives at sea and increased economic crisis and political repression on the island. When Castro again played the trump card, Clinton closed the door, this time imprisoning men, women, and children in Guantanamo for months. This more realistic perspective on U.S. policy toward Cuban exiles does not deny the cynicism and lack of disregard for human lives exhibited by Fidel Castro. It merely ‹xes the role of the U.S. government in this process. This is precisely what had been so hard to do within the exile community: be critical of both the U.S. and Cuban governments and have a political agenda independent of both. In late 1997 Jorge Más Canosa, head of the Cuban-American National Foundation, died. Symbolically, his death suggested the passing of a generation of exile. The foundation created a channel for the frustra- tions among exiled Cubans with continued repression and lack of change on the island. They succeeded in playing American politics well even in the midst of an anti-immigrant backlash in south Florida. But, while it advocated democracy on the island, it did little to encourage it in the community. Jorge Más Canosa was intolerant of opposing opinions, particularly those critical of his style and politics. Undoubtedly, the foundation helped reduce Cuban exile political imagery to a single issue and stance, which contributed to ‹xing the political stereotype of the rabid anti-Castro exile. Cuban communities, including Miami’s, are very different places, however, than they were in the 1980s. A large in›ux of new immigrants and increased contacts between ch7.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 175

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the exiles and the island have provided the community with a more nuanced understanding of island reality. A political program based on the premise that “Cuba is Fidel” is not as attractive to a more sophisticated political audience. And Cuban exiles, for a variety of reasons, including reverse migration to Miami and growing sense that they are immigrants and not always perceived as equals, have become more tolerant, particularly of those issues and people who represent our “other,” the island. But Miami’s transition would require the development of political organizations that could be independent of both governments and grounded in Miami. Both the Left and Right had made Fidel Castro their main political object, whether to support or overthrow him. A political agenda that included Cuba but was grounded in Miami would require a different kind of political vision. The second generation’s emphasis on a more complex understanding of its identity would lay the groundwork for Cuban Miami’s political transition—hopefully, a more open political atmosphere in which second-generation exiles, and maybe those on the island as well, would contribute to a rethinking not only of their identity but of their political organizations as well. ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 176

CHAPTER 8 Diaspora Politics and Identity: Rethinking Theory, Politics, and the Personal

In this book I have provided an account of the development of Cuban exile politics and identity since the Cuban revolution. I have argued that the community’s politics have been profoundly in›uenced by the national security interests of the U.S. and Cuban states. These two states developed policies that, while seemingly at odds with each other, have had the mutual effect of fueling a Cuban exile identity and political culture in the United States. From these large and complicated structures and practices exile political organizations with a unique identity have emerged, but their range and effectiveness have depended heavily on host and home country states. The émigré community has also continued to grow and develop as new exiles have crossed the Florida Straits. Yet, as unique as these experiences may be, Cubans in the United States are part of the larger Latino community, for not only does it share the broader historical relationship between the United States and Latin America, but, ultimately, the development of community politics occurs within a similar institutional and rhetorical framework. In this ‹nal chapter I discuss the implications that the Cuban case may have for the way we think about the political development of diaspora communities. As unique as the circumstances may have been that shaped the contours of the Cuban exile, they suggest that we need to reexamine the conceptual frameworks used to study the development of communities that have crossed political borders during the last half of this century. I also explore ways of analyzing such communities in the future so that we can begin to think about new approaches to understanding the human needs and political responses that emerge from immigration, separation from homeland, and incorporation into a new home.

State Interests / Exile Politics

Since the emergence of modern states, people moving across national boundaries have had a political dimension attached to their experience.

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Applying for visas, getting reentry permits, and passing through security checks are political processes. Since these processes also represent points of contact between states, there are many opportunities for international political maneuvering to take place around the movement of people. For the United States, one of the superpowers involved in the cold war, refugees came to have a symbolic and ideological value by demonstrating that communism was a system worth ›eeing. Given that the cold war was fought principally through national security apparatuses, national security agencies in the United States had an extraordinary in›uence on Cuban exiles. Decisions about who could come to the United States from Cuba, and how, were made under the rubric and in the halls of national security interests. Once they arrived émigrés became foot soldiers for cold war–era U.S. policies toward Cuba. But the Cuban exile community had an additional role in terms of U.S.–Latin American relations. Because of Cuba’s status as a former quasi-colony of the United States, the revolution was not only a challenge to the superpower position of the United States vis-à-vis the socialist camp but also a threat to U.S. hegemony in Latin America. The Cuban revolution and its exiles were thus embroiled in both the East-West confrontation and the struggle between North and South. Cuban national security interests also have in›uenced exile politics. From its onset the Cuban revolution equated leaving the country with treason and de‹ned all those who left as enemies of the state. Practices and laws were institutionalized that contributed to de‹ning the Cuban émigré community as exile, with attendant ideological and political positions. Emigration became the vehicle through which opposition to the Cuban regime was externalized and, indeed, how opposition to the regime was shown. The Cuban revolution was a nationalist revolution, one that sought social justice and national sovereignty. Support for the revolution came from many social classes, including middle and upper classes concerned with issues of sovereignty and government repression. Yet Cuba’s policy of encouraging emigration, a position reinforced by the need to control the population, presented a nationalist revolution with a major contradiction: taken to its logical conclusion, the promotion of emigration denationalized the nation. If early emigrants to the United States were the product of the previous order, in later years emigrants were also the children of the revolution itself. Emigration re›ected the profound disarticulation of a revolutionary process that did not have open political processes with which to incorporate into governance the nation it purported to represent. Changes in Cuba’s policies toward the exile community have generally been very cautious, usually coming in response to changes in U.S. ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 178

LIBRES Y VICTORIOSOS

LA HABANA, 1994 ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 179

FREE AND VICTORIOUS

MIAMI, 1996 ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 180

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policies toward Cuba. The framework within which these policies have been developed is one of war and defense of the country. Added to this was the fact that bureaucratic ‹ghts would erupt periodically as certain sectors of the Communist Party’s bureaucracy attempted to take over chunks of the government’s programs toward the community abroad. The Cuban bureaucracy sought to make policies toward the émigré community part of the domestic realm by trying to include them in the struggle against the counterrevolution. For all these government entities, however, the aim was not necessarily to resolve problems for the exile community but, rather, to grow bureaucratically. The Cuban government’s main strategy toward the exile community was to divide and conquer. Many exile organizations were delegitimized in Cuba because of their allegiance to the United States, a foreign state whose proclaimed aim was to destroy the Cuban revolution and its leadership. At the same time, organizations friendly to the Cuban state were given the opportunity to provide services to the exile community as a way of expanding their political in›uence—a tricky proposition, since émigré community organizations closely allied to the Cuban state had little legitimacy in the exile community. Nonetheless, the dramatic separation between those on the island and those abroad, and the lack of direct economic activity between the United States and the island, created a host of needs for divided families. Service providers who attempted to meet these needs were mainly relegated to selling travel packages for visits to Cuba and sending food, medicine, and correspondence to relatives on the island. Through such ties the émigré community, while a national security issue for Cuba, also became an economic resource for an increasingly cash-strapped state. This role became so important that by the late 1990s exile remittances had become one of the most important contributions to the island’s gross national product. Continued separation between Cuba and the exile community even after the end of the cold war created expanding business opportunities for the Cuban state and U.S.-based organizations friendly to the regime. For both states policies toward emigrants/immigrants were developed and conducted within realms of the government that have little or no accountability to the public. For the United States émigrés from Latin America could be used to meet larger strategic state goals—a situation made more acute by the fact that, until recently, Latinos have had little political power. For Cuba once a person left, he or she was considered a traitor and as such had no rights under the law. In both U.S. and Cuban government bureaucracies those who developed policies toward the exile community had little public accountability. ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 181

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Since many of the original exile organizations also emerged from a national security background, they, too, operated clandestinely and were not subject to public accountability. This encouraged a political culture of secrecy and intolerance in which the rules of the games were de‹ned not by democratic principles but by those of war. Even as organizations in the late 1970s and early 1980s tried to enter electoral politics in the United States or to provide meaningful services to the émigré community the dominance of national security interests, whether for those allied to the United States or those working with the Cuban government, encouraged secrecy and intolerance. For those opposed to the revolution their organizations and political strategies became so closely tied to the United States that they were ren- dered politically impotent on the island. But this closeness also provided them with access to power in their host country. Since the exile community came of age politically in the 1980s, just as other Latino communities were also entering national mainstream politics, certain sectors of the Cuban émigré community provided Republican administrations in Washington an opening to the emerging Latino movement. Cuban exile electoral activism acquired a special political function, with Republicans seeing Cuban-Americans as “their” minority community. But, even with greater participation in domestic politics, the foreign policy realm continued to dominate and de‹ne roles for Cuban exiles. Those supporting the Cuban revolution were often undercut by the aims of Cuba’s policies, especially that of externalizing dissent. As some émigrés tried to unite in a broad coalition supporting dialogue and reconciliation, the Cuban government concerned itself with preventing the emergence of any powerful block, even one supporting policy changes that would favor the island. As such, the quest to unify the greatest number of individuals committed to reconciliation directly contradicted the Cuban government’s strategy of dividing the exile community. This contributed to making these organizations politically ineffective within the exile community and hindered their goal of normalizing relations between the United States and Cuba. Although Cuba initially severed ties to its émigrés, as the United States incorporated exiles into its foreign policy projects the Cuban government looked for ways of reestablishing contact with émigrés who might be friendly to its own foreign policy objectives. The struggle between the two feuding states came to be waged through immigrants, often on host country territory. The U.S. state brought its foreign policy projects to a domestic community, Miami. And Cuba’s interest in the mid-1970s in engaging with sectors of its communities abroad injected a new element into traditional paths for immigrant political development—an active ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 182

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home country government’s involvement with its émigré community. (Other Latin American governments began engaging with their communities sometime later.) This study suggests that, while political borders may indeed be more ›uid than social scientists have traditionally allowed, especially in regard to how people de‹ne their politics and identities, they still serve as structures that determine the ways in which these more ›uid relations occur.

Negotiating Space within Host Countries

In the ‹rst instance the political incorporation of postrevolution Cuban émigrés into the United States resulted from their symbolic and political utility. Because of the impact of Cuban and U.S. national security interests, the political development of Cuban exiles has not followed the typical path of other immigrant communities that ‹rst obtained political power at the local level in order to gain access to resources such as jobs and service. The Cuban exile community was provided jobs and services by the federal government from the very beginning, rendering moot the traditional immigrant model. Rather, from the start the politics of the exile community were closely linked to strategic foreign policy objectives. Cuban exiles acquired political signi‹cance in the foreign policy realm ‹rst and in the domestic realm only later. The Cuban exile community developed within broader U.S. society and thus has been in›uenced by another set of elements: those related to social discrimination. Unlike the federal government, which welcomed refugees in the early 1960s, local government reaction to Cuban exiles was mixed, particularly when it became clear that exiles were in the States to stay and that many more would be coming. Local reaction included housing segregation and a demand that the federal government relocate Cubans out of Miami. People complained that Cubans were loud, pushy, and spoke in Spanish. Local of‹cials feared not only that they would change the complexion of the city but, worse, that someday they would demand the right to vote. But negative local reaction, coupled with the political trauma under- gone by the early exiles, contributed to a unique sense of self. In part this can be traced to the class origins of the initial wave of immigrants who arrived in the early 1960s. People considered nonwhite (regardless of how they identify themselves)1 and of middle-class background generally experience more blatant racial and cultural discrimination than other groups, because they are often the ‹rst to enter exclusively white U.S. institutions. In their jobs these individuals are expected to shed their culture and take on that of the dominant society. Ironically, this process often tends to rein- ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 183

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force an émigré’s own culture at the same time that it increases cultural and ethnic tension. Cubans were often the ‹rst nonwhites to obtain certain high-level jobs, a development that reinforced strong feelings of nationalism in the exile community. In addition, Cubans were able to build a fairly self-suf‹cient enclave in Miami, a closely knit community that tempered the reaction to rejection. This contributed to a less “Americanized” or “racialized” view of their self-identities. Outside of Miami, however, Cubans did not have the support of such an enclave. Although many communities did succeed in setting up cultural and political clubs in other cities, their experiences differed depending on their location. While the Cuban exile community has often been a victim, willing and unwilling, of larger state policies, it has not always been passive. Even within those political and cultural institutions that are tied closely to one or another state, there have been contradictions, dissidence, and rupture indicative of other forces and needs at play in shaping the contours of what we know as the Cuban exile community in the United States. On language issues, for instance, Cubans have advocated bilingual programs and services—a position that has pitted them against the Miami establishment. The ‹rst major break between the shared desire of the exile community and the U.S. government to topple Fidel Castro occurred in the 1970s, when young Cuban exiles entering U.S. universities were radicalized by the U.S. civil rights and antiwar movements. This radicalization forced a rede‹nition of the relationship to homeland precipitated by the search for equality and peace. The quest for equality for Latinos has often included the quest for identity and a reconciliation with homeland. While many organizations that emerged, such as the Antonio Maceo Brigade, looked to the homeland, they were led by Cubans who had lived most of their lives in the United States. The political activities that developed were both a challenge to the Right’s monolithic hold on the community and a challenge to the U.S. state. Although many of these organizations later lost some of their breadth as they moved closer to of‹cial Cuban policies, initially they were organic movements emerging in the heart of an exile community. Even organizations such as the Cuban-American National Founda- tion (CANF), which were closely tied in origin and function to U.S. foreign policy objectives, have demonstrated a capacity to build and use resources in ways that give them independence from the U.S. government. Nonetheless, the message from the federal government, particularly in the 1980s, was that the closer an organization was to the foreign policy objectives of the United States, the more resources it would have. CANF is, in part, a result of Cuban exile capital resources as well as a bene‹ciary of ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 184

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local, state, and federal government contracts. The political possibilities available to CANF are a product of its relationship to individuals and policies in the federal government. Many of the opportunities given to the Cuban émigré community, both in terms of political appointments and contracts, occurred at a time when other Latinos began to gain entrance into the public sector. In a sense Cuban exiles reaped the bene‹ts of years of civil rights struggle waged by other Latinos and African-Americans. This added to the symbolic value that the exile community held for U.S. foreign policy, making it relatively easy for political organizations such as CANF to gain a tremendous amount of prestige and power. Once this power was acquired, it did not always serve the interests of the state, particularly when CANF began to act independently of the White House on international issues. Yet the origins of that power are related to CANF’s links to the state. As the cold war entered its ‹nal stages, many Cuba watchers wondered why the United States did not change its policies toward Cuba. They found their answer in CANF’s lobbying efforts in Washington and claimed that an immigrant group was buying U.S. policies toward Cuba. Yet these observers failed to understand that, while CANF had tremendous in›uence, especially in Congress and in the implementation of policies already developed, the organization had been created in large part by the U.S. state, which had helped it gain legitimacy. Moreover, CANF’s success in the electoral arena was due in part to an undisputed ethnic stereotype about Cuban exiles and their politics. U.S. policy toward Cuba had a dynamic of its own that predated not only the emergence of CANF but also the revolution itself. Finally, as independent as CANF could be in the timing and even in the tactics of its political campaigns, it shared in the overall objective set forth by the GOP administrations in power in the 1980s: the demise of the Castro government. The Democrats later bought into the electoral strategy pioneered by the Bush and Reagan administrations, moving to the right of the Republicans to regain the foothold in the Cuban exile community they had lost the previous decade. In the case of the Cuban exile community its incorporation into mainstream political institutions was greatly facilitated by the value the community brought to the state in its foreign policy objectives. Nonetheless, when the space opened up by these opportunities began to be used for the consolidation of individual and political agendas, struggle ensued, particularly at the local level. The local Democratic Party machine in Florida did not facilitate the entrance of Cuban exiles into politics; rather, it was ethnic mobilization on a national scale by the Republicans that opened the door for Cubans to participate politically at the local and state level. Local politics continued to be contingent on foreign policy. In the late ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 185

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1980s and early 1990s, as CANF tried to impose a speci‹c political agenda on the émigré community while excluding all other voices from the public debate, cracks appeared in the empire which became more evident after Jorge Más Canosa’s death in 1997.2 Other organizations, such as the Coordinadora de Derechos Humanos, with its links to human rights activists on the island, challenged CANF’s claim to representing the consensus of the community. Many of these battles were waged in the ideological arena; in this sense Latin American and U.S. traditions coincided. The Miami Herald launched a daily Spanish-language supplement that became home to political and ideological debate and quickly gained prominence in Miami and Havana. The organizational alternatives to CANF, groups such as the Cuban- American Committee and the Cuban Committee for Democracy (CCD), also focused on foreign policy objectives and, like CANF, lost sight of their own role in the domestic policy arena. In the case of CCD its organizational structure tried to mimic CANF and as such provided no alternative organizational vision. The U.S. political experience contributed to the emergence of organizations that concentrated their political efforts on their host country government, even though Cuba was still the focus of their agenda. Ethnic mobilization, with its “Cuban exile” content, was a vehicle through which community politics was conducted. A political culture began to emerge that clearly distinguished the practice of politics in the community from the past and offered new ways for dealing with controversial opinions. Terrorist tactics gave way to conventional methods of pressure and debate and to more familiar kinds of ethnic organizations.

Homeland and Identity

Most Cubans in the United States realized that they were here to stay regardless of what happened in Cuba. But the issue of Cuba still dominated the Cuban émigré political agenda. Hostilities between host and home countries continued to distort the debate. As a result, it was dif‹cult to negotiate a political/cultural identity that kept the homeland alive in a constructive way. The initial rupture was so painful that the search for identity changed direction and turned inward, leading many Cubans to articulate a mythical image of homeland. The changing nature of the exile community allowed for an expanded de‹nition of self, just as concern for the homeland was further legitimized when new waves of exiles came into the community’s political life. The rupture between émigrés and homeland, so de‹nitive in the early 1960s, did not seem to reproduce itself in later waves ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 186

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of exiles. Many of the later émigrés wanted to maintain an active relationship to their home country. Perhaps they did not expect to go back. The pull of home country has been a steady preoccupation of most immigrants. In this sense Cuban exiles’ longing for homeland has not been unique. In the early 1960s painters such as Felix Ramos made a living recreating lush and colorful framboyanes (royal poinsettias) that hung in the living rooms of Cuban families throughout the United States alongside a much-reproduced photograph of the Malecon, the Havana seawall. But nostalgia was permeated with the impossibility of return. Paradise had been lost forever to the forces of evil. For the ‹rst group of postrevolution émigrés, nostalgia was a means of defying the of‹cial Cuban position that forbade their return to Cuba and de‹ned them as anti-Cuban. When Cuban exiles were allowed to return to Cuba in 1978, some artists and writers started to break through the ruptured or dichotomized identity. New possibilities were opened, but the polarization was so de‹nitive that return to the homeland remained politicized and continued to be seen by the community as an act of treason. Enjoying music or art or friends who lived on the island became an act of otherness, an act of betrayal. It was not until the mid-1980s that this dichotomy began to give way to the possibility of a more ›uid identity. The Mariel immigration injected the community with a signi‹cant number of intellectuals, writers, and artists who brought with them a more contemporary, albeit sometimes complex and antagonistic, vision of Cuba. But this more ›uid identity emerged at the margins of political structures because the Mariel immigration had provoked a crisis for the revolutionary government and the exile community. For the island Mariel showed that the Cuban government was inca- pable of uniting the very people it was supposed to have served, the poor. The revolution had failed in the nationalist principles that had been its moving force since the 1950s. With Mariel the government pushed a signi‹cant sector of its population out of the geographic boundaries of the nation and of‹cially denationalized it, while claiming that these people, the lumpen and the escoria, were not part of the nation. For the exile community Mariel was a reminder that the cultural life of the country, however dif‹cult, had continued in Cuba after their departure. Putting additional pressure on the Cuban government’s failure to provide a home for all Cubans was the increased contact between people on the island and abroad. Cubans on the island rejoined families that, in almost every case, had not seen each other for twenty years. Toward the end of the 1980s the decision by the United States to allow tourist visas for family visits to the United States, as well as Cuba’s decision to lower the ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 187

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age of those allowed to travel, contributed to breaking down the political wall that had been erected between those who had left and those who remained. Academic exchanges, although tightly controlled in Cuba as well as the United States, also contributed to creating new ways for people to relate to one another. While for most émigrés the longing for Cuba is about the past and is, as such, nostalgic, these new contacts allowed the development of another type of longing, one that sought a meaningful connection in the present. The hope was that homeland could become a source of pride and cultural rejuvenation for a community of Latin American émigrés. But, it seemed, the closer émigrés moved toward their homeland, the more dif‹cult it was for the island government to incorporate this force. Adding to the complexity of the problem was the Cuban government’s response to the worsening economic situation after the fall of the socialist bloc. The government sought to attract foreign investment, but when many Cuban exiles came forward ready and willing to invest in Cuba they presented the Cuban government with a dilemma. For years the Cuban press had created a negative image of Cuban exiles, yet now many wanted to help their country. Initially, the economic restructuring that took place in Cuba allowed foreigners, but not Cuban exiles, to invest in the island. A proposed solution was to strip Cubans who had left of their Cuban citizenship and thus be able to say that those investing were not Cubans but foreigners. Naturally, this created an even larger conceptual problem. Could the state erase a person’s nationality? Wasn’t there a distinction between state and nation? In a society like Cuba’s, in which civil society is almost nonex- istent, the notion of citizenship is dif‹cult to imagine. Citizenship is intimately connected to the fall of monarchies and the rise of a modern state, in which rights are constituted precisely to protect the individual from the state. In Cuba the revolution had blurred any distinction between society and the state and between the state and the nation. As a result, national identity had to be found outside legal and political de‹nitions. Thus, culture and its de‹nition became an important debate for Cubans inside and outside the country. In the 1980s the prevailing wisdom in the Cuban communities abroad was that the high level of repression on the island made it impossible for culture to ›ourish. On the island it was argued that for culture to be Cuban it had to be created inside the nation. But this outside/inside distinction lost viability when people on and off the island came into increased contact with one another. Toward the end of the 1980s the worsening economic and political conditions in Cuba contributed to the spiraling number of intellectuals and artists forced to emigrate. Mexico City, Madrid, ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 188

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and Miami received a signi‹cant number of writers and artists. Most of these young artists were uninterested in reproducing the rupture of the early 1960s and became a force in changing any de‹nition of Cuban culture that excluded those outside the island. At a time when important sectors of the exile community were searching for a rede‹nition of identity that included homeland, those in Cuba were searching for a new paradigm based on a nationalist vision that rede‹ned the nation as well—a rede‹nition that often included those who had left. This crossroads provided an opportunity in which Cuban identity might shed its politicized dichotomy and the geographic distinction between who is and isn’t Cuban. This exploration was a challenge to the way power had arranged itself in the twentieth century. Cuban émigrés have had two political options: either staying and defending their home country or joining an “enemy state.” Yet the identity of Miami’s Cubans is far more complex than the stark choice offered by these two options. Cuban exiles have constructed their political, cultural, and personal identities in ways that go beyond what is legal or of‹cially permitted. This search for a more ›uid identity has been a feature in the politics of other Latino communities as well, particularly in the radical politics of the 1960s and 1970s. There have been numerous projects to establish a dialogue between Puerto Ricans from the mainland and those on the island. The great in›ux of new immigrants from Mexico has also spurred debates in many U.S. Mexican communities on how to connect struggles across the border. The preoccupation with homeland is an important component of Latino identity in the United States, but it is not the only preoccupation. And moreover, it is a preoccupation that comes and goes depending on many factors.

Remapping Theoretical and Political Boundaries

While the movement of people from one land to another has been part of human history from its beginning, in the twentieth century new modes of transportation and communication have contributed to the speed of this movement. In addition, the political boundaries drawn by colonization have given way to larger-scale economic units at the same time that ethnically driven political forces have tried to redraw national boundaries. How, then, are we to understand communities formed by the transnational movement of people from one state to another in the age of globalization? The paradigms that have dominated the social sciences adopt the conceptual framework of the nation-state as the organizing unit of people’s ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 189

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lives. This framework misses important parts of the social and political reality lived by communities shaped by more than one nation-state. Those studying the interaction and effects of host and home country policies on immigrant communities have often found that the topic is considered too “ethnic” for traditional foreign policy paradigms and too “foreign” for ethnic politics approaches. The other model of political behavior is the minority model that emphasizes exclusion and inclusion on the basis of race. The minority model traces political development as a product of struggle for inclusion, basing its observations largely on the experiences of African-Americans. While this perspective acknowledges the importance of social mobilization along ethnic and/or racial lines, it is still bound by the con‹nes of a single nation-state. The conceptual framework that approached Latinos from a development or socialization perspective relies on a de‹nition of political behavior as something that takes place within the political institutions of one nation-state. The nation-state constricts the lens used to examine identity and, consequently, political action. Identity can be conceived only within the host nation-state; one’s relationship to homeland, another nation- state, or host country falls outside the realm of traditional processes of political activism and therefore of political identity. The political experiences of Cuban exiles and other Latino communities cannot be placed neatly within conceptual categories that predict that once you emigrate you sever connections to your homeland. Instead, we may want to ask when and how a home and/or host country shape the development of immigrant communities. The socialization model’s unilin- ear path does not allow for the ebb and ›ow of concerns about ethnic or national identity that, in part, may be socially and personally contextual. One may become more sensitive to issues of identity, for example, when under threat, such as at moments when there is a rise in anti-immigrant sentiment against a particular community. In addition, these concerns can become accentuated during certain stages of the life cycle, such as becoming a parent. In terms of academic disciplines the Latino political experiences are located in the ‹elds of ethnic studies, area studies, and foreign policy. Without exception the emergence and growth of Latino immigrant communities can be traced to the interaction among local development politics in the country of origin and U.S. economic and national security policies in the region. The continual interaction of labor and capital ›ows with regional and hemispheric national security policies has contributed to shaping Latin American immigration into the United States and has affected the politics of these immigrant communities. Traditional questions of local and national politics have had an impact as well. ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 190

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While the emergence of Miami as home to most of the Cuban exile community has its own set of characteristics, these are connected to the overall relationship of the United States to Latin America, speci‹cally to the Caribbean and Central America. In fact, the United States’s hypersen- sitivity to the Cuban revolution had as much to do with the unique relationship of Cuba to the United States as it did to how the events would play in Latin America. This does not deny the individuality of different national experiences that contain multiple layers and unique characteristics of their own (the Texas Chicano experience is not the same as the His- panic Mexican-American experience in New Mexico). But it does suggest that there are overall dynamics of the Latino experiences that create as much common ground as they do differences. The challenge for social scientists is not to assume that these dynamics do or do not exist but to investigate them. Latino experiences, including the Cuban exile political experience, are best understood within a comprehensive and comparative conceptual framework, as suggested by Frank Bonilla and the political economy working group of the Inter-University Program on Latino Research.3 Such a framework needs to include an understanding of the origins of Latino communities in the United States. These can be traced to the interaction of the United States with other nation-states, be it through conquest, expansion, or intervention. Thus, immigration from Latin Ameri- can countries to the United States can be seen as a by-product of a more complex set of hemispheric relations between country of origin and host country than that allowed by traditional paradigms. In addition, the internal dynamics of home countries also in›uence the politics of those who have left. The other side of the coin for Latino politics, including those of Cuban exiles, is the political environment in the United States. And again, while there are regional distinctions, there are similar institutions and political cultures though which the various Latino experiences are ‹ltered. Indeed, the “Latino” phenomenon of the 1980s is one of the ‹lters through which community politics is articulated, particularly at the national level. Furthermore, although these home countries were not direct colonies of the United States (with the exception of Puerto Rico), they do share some of the same dynamics of European countries and their colonies. The United States essentially took over the postcolonial relationship between Europe and its others in the southern part of the Western hemisphere. This economic and political relationship is accompanied by a conceptual framework that sees Latin America and Latin Americans as others. At the turn of the century U.S. views of Latin Americans were blatantly racist.4 While such images have given way to more sophisticated portrayals of ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 191

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Latin Americans, they are still in›uenced by these perspectives. Once in the United States, émigrés from Latin America live and work in a society that has often excluded people of different cultures from full participation through a process of racialization. Unlike European societies, the United States had legalized slavery, along with which came a racist conception of who was entitled to participate in the public sphere. Racism permeated society.5 While rooted in the experience of slavery, ideas about race have affected conceptions of nationality as well. People of certain nationalities, Latin Americans included, are often not considered white. For example, government forms ask applicants whether they are white, black, or Hispanic. “Hispanic”—an ethnic category—is equated conceptually with the racial categories of “white” and “black.” While color is a concept that was part of the language of colonization, in the United States, it has unique elements that in›uence the way that exclusion and, consequently, struggles for inclusion have been waged.6 Yet, instead of challenging the categories themselves as exclusionary practices, many of the empowerment movements of the 1960s reproduced the same categories, albeit in a positive light. Race, ethnicity, and gender were exalted as essential elements in de‹ning one’s identity. For immigrant communities, these movements sought a reconnection to their cultural roots, a notion which suggested a return to a lost territory. In the past ten years rigid categories have given way to more complex understandings of ethnic and cultural identity. Curiously, some of these new ways of looking at identity are not direct responses to exclusionary categories of race and culture but, rather, a response to categories promoted by progressive movements that, in trying to develop a discourse of inclusion, promoted exclusionary categories themselves. As such, the conceptual paradigms were not transformed but applied differently. In the 1990s intellectuals, particularly artists and writers, began proposing more complex ways of understanding multiple identities and multiple points of cultural and political references that inform the postmodern experience and that have been particularly evident in communities made up of large numbers of immigrants.7 There is a rich intellectual tradition in Latin America that can contribute to these debates. Unlike the British, whose settlement patterns led colonial societies to create rigid categories of insider and outsider (note the “one drop of blood” rule), the Spanish relied on armies to implement colonialism. In addition, the military was accompanied by Catholic missionaries who believed that, if converted, natives could be considered full human beings. As a result, in the Spanish colonies there was more intermingling of ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 192

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different peoples and a more ›exible view of blending than in the British colonial tradition. Mestizaje and syncretism have long been accepted as contributing to the formation of Latin American identity.8 There is an important debate about identity issues taking place in postcolonial Europe that can enrich the American debate.9 One perspective that can be discerned from both is the need to understand cultures and, consequently, identities both as hybrids and as ongoing processes. In diaspora communities in particular the transculturation, or practice of clearly identi‹able multiple cultures previously conceived as homogeneous (home and host cultures), produces new forms of cultural practices that can best be described as hybrid. In contrast to a paradigm that sees these cultures as proof of cultural diversity, Homi Bhabha suggests that they demonstrate the hybridity of cultures themselves. This may open the way “to conceptualizing an international culture based not on exoticism of multiculturalism or the diversity of cultures, but on the inscription and articulation of culture’s hybridity”10 and in politics as a place “not located in any particular geographic space, nor . . . tied to a single predetermined political position.”11 This is particularly helpful in understanding diaspora communities. The proposition of hybridity allows us to appreciate the dynamics of a community that has points of reference in multiple cultures that are themselves mixtures as well. And, while there is already some acceptance of the hybridity of cultural practices, a rethinking of political practices for people whose lives are affected by multiple states is just beginning. Ironically, countries of origin have been the most active in trying to include in their polity those living abroad. This effort is directly related to an awareness of the economic role played by remittances sent home by immigrants that in many cases make up a critical component of the sending country’s gross national product as well as the growing political importance of their communities abroad. Yet, while sending countries have extended to their diasporas an invitation to participate in national politics, albeit symbolically, many host countries are closing the doors to immigrants. What does this anti-immigrant backlash tell us about the conceptions of democracy and citizenship in the United States in particular? It again reminds us that society puts a premium on those who are either born in the United States or have become naturalized citizens, not necessarily on those who contribute through their work to the well-being of U.S. society. The frontier of who is entitled is demarcated by legal conceptions of who was born in the United States and who has successfully met the requirements to become a citizen. It also suggests that, while the notion of who is entitled to participate has expanded over the past two hundred years, and indeed may be one of the most open processes among countries, it is not an ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 193

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inevitable or steady progression but one that occasionally contracts as well. It is one of the arenas in which the battle to de‹ne democracy is waged. This was clearly the case in the debate in the mid-1990s about whether or not legal residents were entitled to social bene‹ts. The issue of identity, including its multiple dimensions, is at the heart of the debate about immigration and multiculturalism. It is a debate to de‹ne what the public culture should look like. Should it be a uniform culture driven by a single language and set of values or one that is more open, not just permissive of multiple cultures? Inherent in the more monocultural vision is an authoritarian and exclusionary view of who is entitled or at least what it takes to be entitled to participate in the public arena. Those who argue for a uniform culture worry that ethnic diversity in the public sector somehow weakens the country and fragments the whole. Democ- racy, a political system that purports to be inclusive of all political ideologies, seems not to be as tolerant of ethnic diversity or difference in the public sphere. The price for political diversity in the United States is a form of monoculturalism in the public sphere. And even more curious is that, as privileged as Cuban exiles have been in the context of U.S. politics, it was the governor’s race in the state of Florida in the 1990s that launched an anti-immigrant platform nationwide. There have been moments when the public culture has been more accommodating of difference. The 1975 extension to the Voting Rights Act included a provision to provide bilingual ballots in counties that had a certain percentage of Spanish-speaking residents. And many public school districts have recognized the diversity of their student bodies and have provided bilingual education. But even these programs are aimed in great part at “weaning” students from their native language into English, not necessarily in teaching all students two languages or even in helping students retain a native language as they learn English. The U.S. political system does include extraordinary avenues through which immigrants can become “political Americans,” but the underlying assumption is that, by doing so, people will eventually shed their other “ethnic” identities or at least their other national loyalties.12 In reality some communities were never accepted as truly American. Furthermore, underlying this paradigm is the notion that there is “an American culture.” While it is true that the content of this culture is rapidly becoming more inclusive—particularly since marketing strategists have discovered that sales increase when markets are targeted ethnically—for most of U.S. history nonwhites have not been considered American. Perhaps most problematic among all these notions is the idea that ethnic identity is in some way static or an end product. There is a contradiction here that should be noted. Much voter mobi- ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 194

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lization occurs along the lines of ethnic-based appeals.13 But a close examination of ethnicity in the electoral arena shows that much of it is based on ethnic stereotypes that conveniently organize sectors of the American electorate for the purposes of electioneering, not necessarily for the purposes of empowerment. The formula for Cuban exiles is: “be hard on Castro.” In addition, the conceptual underpinning of the ethnic construct that oper- ates in elections is the hyphenated phenomenon—that is, ethnicity, although belonging to the private arena, becomes a vehicle to becoming a “political American.” In contrast, a multicultural vision of the public space de‹ned as a dynamic, ever-changing mixture of multiple cultures that in and of themselves are also changing mixtures calls for a public environment more open to difference. For instance, instead of “English only” rules, multiple languages could be part of the national heritage. There are conceptual dif‹culties, however, with de‹nitions of multiculturalism that are based on group rights. For example, what happens to individual or human rights if rights are conceived along group lines? But another vision of multiculturalism strives to make individuals themselves multicultural. Such a vision sees the public culture not just as the outcome of different cultures being incorporated on the basis of a preexisting culture but as an open-ended process that changes with each new wave of immigrants.14 This, inciden- tally, is far different than changes in popular culture driven by marketing techniques. Curiously, for home countries like Mexico, Cuba, and Puerto Rico the national project has included a process of cultural integration. For instance, Cuba is a country that historically has had an amazing capacity to make “cultural Cubans” of (and make Cuban culture inclusive of) all kinds of people—Gallegos, Africanos, Chinos, Judios, Irlandes, Libanos, Jamaiquinos. In Cuba’s case cultural pluralism has been accompanied by authoritarian political uniformity. Political dissenters are considered non- Cubans, and exile is their punishment. A similar theoretical limitation frames both of these perspectives: a de‹nition of national identity conceived as a singular identity that falls within the geographic borders of a nation-state. What may be missing in the prevalent analysis of identity and politics in home and host countries is the sense that in order for democracy—that is, a political system in which power lies in the polity and the polity is protected from the abuses of government—to ›ourish, societies must encourage both political and ethnic/racial pluralism. One cannot exist without the other. Imagine, for a moment, the similarities in the effect of structural mechanisms needed to impose either a single culture or a uniform political ideology. While not overt, there are repressive social and educational mechanisms in place in ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 195

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the United States that strip immigrant children of a non-English language and erase from their memory their heritage. And, although more brutal and authoritarian, there are national security mechanisms in place on the island and other authoritarian countries that delegitimize opposing political ideas and erase from the collective memory political dissidents, including those in exile. Nation-states that demand either political or cultural homogeneity may have outlived their usefulness in a world in which many of us, for a myriad of reasons, have crossed many borders and transformed both our home and host countries. Our own identities are now made up of multiple sources, as are our sending and receiving societies. We live at a time when capital, images, and culture cross borders with ease. Thus, all of us are in›uenced by and act upon some of the same elements. Added to this are the revolutions in communications and transportation that allow us to be in many places at the same time. The outcome is not a postmodern, uniform, single identity but, rather, an identity with multiple layers. Negoti- ating through these various contexts has also become more complex. To understand the new matrices within which we live we need to have a more open de‹nition of identity and politics. A framework is needed that welcomes the exploration of multiple layers of identity that have evolved outside the con‹nes of established rules and procedures. This theoretical paradigm would not assume that geographic borders organize the politics and identities of peoples; rather, while they are structures that have a real impact on immigrant communities, they can be crossed at many levels, including the level of politics. Subsequently, a different vision emerges of how politics can be organized. If states can and do enter into international agreements on a host of issues, why shouldn’t individuals organize binational or even multina- tional organizations that can bid for representation in multiple governments and hold them accountable for their actions? The contestation of power might also include an organizational vision that transcends political borders. Alliances can be built both with movements in home and host countries. Roger Rouse has pointed out how the social bifocality of immigrant groups creates a complex system that does not necessarily choose one or another of the cultural or economic arrangements in host or home country but, instead, involves a process of syncretism between various aspects of both localities.15 Purnima Mankekar suggests we extend this understanding to politics. “The political lives of diasporas,” she writes, “are clearly not insulated from politics in the homeland . . . How then do we conceive of a political space that enables us to subvert the binaries of homeland and diaspora while simultaneously allowing us to build alliances with struggles for social justice in both places?”16 ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 196

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Diaspora groups are outsiders, on the margins of their societies. The fact that they have left their homeland puts them outside whatever power structures may be in place there. As immigrants, they are also marginal to the power structures of their new home. In a situation of contestation between home and host country, as was the case with Cuban exiles, to line up with the power structures of their host country (as was the case for the Right) or with the elite in the home county (as was the case for the Left) does not guarantee democratization for the community or for the home or host country. Ultimately, diaspora communities need to struggle for democratization in both places. Binational or international efforts to form political coalitions raise questions beyond the appropriate organizational unit of politics for both the exercise and contestation of power. For one there is the question of national sovereignty. Since individual nation-states are more or less powerful, movement emanating from the powerful states runs the risk of inter- vening in the affairs of less powerful nations and not necessarily for noble purposes but, rather, for the purposes of domination from abroad. Claims of national sovereignty cannot be allowed to serve as excuses, however, for unabated or uncontested power formations that have proven to be abusive and corrupt. These alternative political visions also raise questions about the conception of citizenship itself. Liberal democracy brought forth the idea of the universal individual with equal rights but then conceived the public space as one that removed to the private realm everything that could cause difference. But how can we de‹ne the rights of groups that emerge from differences without falling into the trap of constructing yet another homogeneous category that does not allow for differences and, consequently, debate? In the struggle against racism or for democracy on the part of diasporic movements there is a tendency to speak about the similarities within groups.17 But the differences within groups may be just as important.18 This leads us to another dilemma—that of how group and individual rights can be reconciled. Chantal Mouffe suggests that an approach that “permits us to understand how the subject is constructed through different discourses and subject positions is more adequate than one that reduces our identity to one single position.”19 Here a more radical project of democracy is needed—one that does not seek simply to unshackle a nation or a community from its oppressor but, rather, that engages in debate because difference is assumed even within. As we enter the next century, we must begin to think of ways to protect both human and community rights. This necessarily includes a rethinking of the political units available to participate in debate and deliberation. ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 197

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New ways of thinking are required that are not based on unilateral categories but, instead, appreciate the interconnectedness of the world around us. Exiles live in both home and host countries. This experience has contributed to what may be a new way of conceptualizing the postmodern experience. Edward Said suggests that “intellectually this means that an idea or experience is always counterpoised with another, therefore making them both appear in a sometimes new and unpredictable light: from that juxtaposition one gets a better, perhaps even a more universal idea of how to think, say, about a human rights issue.”20 Precisely because diaspora communities have had to negotiate their identities in relation to various states and cultures, our experiences may be critical in developing new ways of thinking about multiple identities in which nations (that is, the souls of communities) can survive and states (the mechanisms that control these souls) are transformed.

My Continued Quest for Coherence: Politics and Identity

For years to talk about xenophobia or discrimination against Cubans was heresy. Those of us raised outside the enclave, and therefore more exposed to racism, were ostracized in Miami when we tried to discuss racism or raise our voices in support of the civil rights movement. We were accused of having crossed the great ideological fault line between capitalism and communism. In retrospect we were not living up to our end of the symbolic bargain that said, “Refugees thrown out of their communist countries are welcomed by the free United States.” The world, for communities in the battle zones of the cold war, was one-dimensional. Everything was either/or: either you loved or hated Cas- tro; either you loved or hated the United States. Any deviation from this simplistic formula left one vulnerable to accusations of treason. The unipolarity of the political discourse also malformed our politics and our visions of ourselves. We could not develop a coherent political discourse that was critical of both governments or that viewed both governments simply as state actors. Instead, governments became our allies. Those ‹ghting the Castro government placed their faith in the U.S. national security bureaucracy; those of us targeted in the Cuban exile community for traveling to Cuba believed that Cuban bureaucrats wanted to protect us. Maybe the truth was too hard to accept: We were unwelcome in both our home and host countries. From different sides of the political spectrum we found comfort in being accepted by either government. Our need for acceptance blinded us to the realization that we were expendable symbolic capital—not an uncommon phenomenon for diaspora communities. ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 198

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Diaspora communities seek a place. This place is not constructed by a single country, either the United States or Cuba, but by both. The realization that our place will be constructed in and by both countries does not deny the exile component of our reality. Unfortunately, it will continue to be a critical aspect of our identity as long as there is a law in our home country that prevents us from returning or as long as the only meaningful options for dissent in Cuba are going to jail or being ostracized or asked to leave the country or as long as there is a ley de peli- grosidad (law of menace) that gives the government authority to imprison whomever it wants—that is, as long as the present and future of the island are held hostage to the concentrated power and arbitrary whims of an aging autocrat. What it does mean is that we must accept and act upon the multiplicity of places in which our identities are constructed. This includes our place as a diaspora community from Cuba and in the United States. The Cuban source of our identity needs to be nurtured with more than strong doses of nostalgia. It needs a more contemporary vision that ›ows from engagement with the island. To accept our role as a diaspora community in the United States means to struggle for rights here as well. This requires expanding the political agenda to include issues of immigration, language rights, health care, and economic opportunity alongside the call for a more open society in our home country. So far, this coherence had been missing from both the Left and the Right. As a transnational community, we have a right to engage with both our host and home countries. It is clear that the current Cuban leadership is not interested in normalizing relations with either the United States or the exile community. Every time we seem closer to reconciliation the Cuban government pulls a stunt that pushes us away: escalation of the Cuban-backed war in Angola during the Ford administration, the Mariel exodus during the Carter years, the videotaping of the exile conference in 1994, and the shooting down of Hermanos al Rescate’s planes in 1996. On the other hand, the U.S. government has acted predictably in every one of these situations, playing directly into the hands of the hard-liners on the island. The United States tightened its embargo and effectively shut the doors for engagement with the island. Each government offers us a stark choice, an either/or. Each time I return across time and space, each time I move between cultures and economic systems, I am more convinced that I do not want or need to accept the either/or conception of my identity that demands that I choose sides. My identity is far more complex. I was born in Havana and raised in Texas. I was radicalized with Chicanos and returned to Cuba and in the process was ostracized from my community. Now I live in Chicago, ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 199

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but I also live in Havana and Miami, emotionally and professionally. I am always returning; I am always staying. I am white when I wake up in Havana, but I am other because of my migratory experience. I am again other once I take the thirty-minute ›ight to Miami, because I am no longer white and because in Miami my commitment to return to Cuba and have a normal relationship with my home country has made me politically other. I arrive in Chicago, and again I am other, now because I am Latina in a city that is de‹ned in black and white. I am always a woman, a mother, a Cuban. I will always have been born in Havana, of a mother who was born in Meneses and a father born in Matanzas, of grandparents who were born in Meneses and Matanzas, of great-grandparents who were born in Meneses and Matanzas, of great- great-grandparents, some born in Spain, others in the Canary Islands. These multiple roots and experiences are my identity. My search for coherence and voice has been my politics. For years I felt that I had neatly put away pieces of my identity in different parts of the world, but, more recently I have come to understand that I need not accept the categories that divide who I am. Instead, I must construct new categories, new political and emotional spaces, in which my multiple identities can be one. Regardless of what happens in Cuba (by most accounts it will remain an economically strapped country with authoritarian structures, whether based in the military or organized crime, or both), most Cubans in the United States will stay, and many more will continue to arrive. How the Cuban community sees itself and de‹nes its relationship to homeland and host country will continue to unfold. Will the dominant political culture and practices in the United States be opened suf‹ciently to allow immigrants both to preserve their heritage and to participate fully in their host country? Can the Cuban government come to accommodate diverse Cuban voices, regardless of where they live? Can we be more inclusive of differences; can we think in the plural? As a small nation in the Caribbean that sought its independence and waged a radical nationalist revolution, Cuba became a threat to the most powerful country in the world in the hysterical climate of the cold war. Cuban émigrés became the yellow ribbons of the 1960s; Americans could ‹ght communism by adopting a Cuban child or sponsoring a family to come to the United States. In the meantime the besieged revolution became bureaucratized, and power became concentrated. Leaving or staying became a litmus test to ascertain where one’s loyalties resided. For almost forty years children and families have been manipulated politically to feed power structures on both sides of the Florida Straits that func- tioned as mirror images of each other, even though they evolved in radically distinct political spaces. ch8.qxd 10/11/1999 10:13 AM Page 200

200 In the Land of Mirrors

I will continue to return; Cuba is one of my homes. But, while the cir- cle is larger and more coherent than before, there is a new con›ict that I have not resolved. Those who have left recently cannot return; people who have “inappropriately” criticized the government are sometimes denied reentry permits, or their passports are not renewed, even if they are equally critical of the hard-liners in the exile community. I am morally con›icted because, for now, I am able to return, while others who would like to do so cannot. Mid-›ight between Miami and Havana, in either direction, I believe I can hold both sides together. Increasingly, there is the possibility for a coherent perspective, for an imagined future that transcends the rupture without denying the pain, without compromising the ethics and principles that in the long run make a difference in history. Today these are the longest ninety miles in the world, but they are still only ninety miles. I arrive in Havana, and the smell of humid red dirt surrounds me. I feel so far from Miami and so close to my daughters. They can reside in both spaces: they have not lost a home; they have gained a heritage. I con- verse with friends in Havana, pick up the letters they wish to send. Then, the next day, I return to Miami and continue the conversation I began in Havana. We drink a bottle of Coronilla, like the ones they used to drink at parties in Varadero during the summers, not daring to think of what life was like on the other side of the Florida Straits, where we now sit watching the moonlight cast an eerie light, the same light I saw the night before from the other side. I suddenly feel very far from Cuba; I miss my friends, I miss the intensity, I miss the familiar context. When I return a few months later I begin a new conversation in Miami. About an hour later I am sitting on a rocking chair on the porch of my other home on la Calle 20; Josesito comes by, and we pick up the same conversation I started in Miami. Somehow the time between this and our last meeting has been suspended. Each of us are creating third personas that watch as we struggle alone and away from one another, that bring us together even as our day-to-day lives are separated by hostility and fear. It is the persona of friendship and shared passions. We return to the place where we parted, and we feel the connection. I do not know how long political structures can survive while they impede the tremendous human desire to belong, to build, to have a coherent existence, that for all of us in Miami, Chicago, Havana, Matanzas, and Varadero includes all of these places. Our lives have been marked by the rupture. It is our nation, after all. I am comforted by the thought that, no matter how hard governments may try, they cannot legislate identities; they cannot erase our history. A collective understanding, a recognition, an Areíto to heal, may be the way to continue searching for coherence, to begin reconciling with our enemies—and ourselves. notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 201

Notes

Preface

1. In Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis (Boston: Beacon Press, 1989) Renato Rosaldo talks about how linkages between academic training and personal experience force a reevaluation of the notion of truth itself as it has come to be accepted in our disciplines. 2. Larry Preston, in “Theorizing Difference: Voices from the Margins” (Amer- ican Political Science Review 89, no. 4 [December 1995]: 941–53), writes about the dif‹culties inherent in this endeavor. 3. Homi K. Bhabha, “The Commitment to Theory,” The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 19–39. 4. In The Vulnerable Observer: Anthropology That Breaks Your Heart (Boston: Beacon Press, 1996) Ruth Behar writes about the dilemmas in using personal narrative as part of the process of social science. 5. Parts of the introduction are excerpted from an essay that appeared in Ruth Behar, ed., Puentes a Cuba / Bridges to Cuba (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995), 25–43.

Introduction

1. A derogatory term literally translated as “worm,” gusano is a Cuban collo- quialism for “lowlife.” The term also refers to the duffel bags carried by those who ›ed Cuba in the early 1960s. 2. Years later Wayne Smith wrote in his book The Closest of Enemies: A Per- sonal and Diplomatic Account of U.S. Cuban Relations since 1957 (New York: Nor- ton, 1987) about how the release of prisoners had been worked out between both governments before the meeting with exiles. 3. For instance, the Pablo Milanes Foundation was a quasi-independent foundation through which exchanges with the exile community were encouraged. The Cuban government shut down the foundation in the early 1990s, thereby destroying a project that had given hope to many artists and intellectuals about the prospects for staying on the island. 4. See, for example, Rodolfo de la Garza, Robert Winckle, and Jerry Polinard, “Ethnicity and Policy: The Mexican American Perspective,” in F. Chris Garcia, ed., Latinos and the Political System (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1988), 426–41.

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202 Notes to Pages xiv–27

5. Mary Louise Pratt and Charlene Aguilar, eds., “Still Looking for America: Beyond the Latino National Political Survey” (report prepared by the Public Out- reach Project, Stanford Center for Chicano Research, Stanford University, Janu- ary 1994). 6. I discuss this in more detail in “Transnational Political and Cultural Identi- ties: Crossing Theoretical Borders,” in Frank Bonilla, Edwin Melendez, Rebecca Morales, and María de los Angeles Torres, eds., Borderless Borders: Latinos in the Global Society (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998), 169–82. 7. See the work of Tomás Almaguer, “Toward a Study of Chicano Colonial- ism,” in Aztlan: Chicano Journal of Social Sciences and the Arts 1, no. 2 (fall 1970): 7–21. Also see Rudy Acuña, Occupied America: A History of Chicanos (New York: Harper and Row, 1988); and Mario Barrera, Race and Class in the Southwest (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1979). 8. Rufus Browning, Dale Rogers Marshall, and David Tabb, Protest Is Not Enough: The Struggle of Blacks and Hispanics for Equality in Urban Politics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984). 9. See Juan Gomez-Quiñones, “Notes on the Interpretation of the Relations between the Mexican Community in the United States and Mexico”; and Carlos Zazueta, “Mexican Political Actors in the United States and Mexico: Historical and Political Contexts of a Dialogue,” both in Carlos Vasquez and Manuel Garcia y Griego, eds., Mexican/U.S. Relations: Con›ict and Convergence (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1983), 417–83. 10. History Task Force of El Centro de Estudios Puertoriqueños, Labor Migra- tion under Capitalism: The Puerto Rican Experience (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1979); and Manuel Maldonado-Dennis, Puerto Rico y Estados Unidos: Emi- gracion y Colonialismo (Mexico: Siglo Veintiuno Editores, 1976). 11. María de los Angeles Torres, “From Exiles to Minorities: The Politics of the Cuban Community in the United States” (Ph.D. diss., Political Science Depart- ment University of Michigan, 1986). 12. A review of this research was published as “Encuentros y Encontronazos: Homeland in the Politics and Identity of the Cuban Diaspora,” in Diaspora: A Journal of Transnational Studies 4, no. 2 (fall 1995): 211–38. 13. Frank Bonilla, “Brother Can You Paradigm?” (Working Paper, Inter-Uni- versity Program on Latino Research, University of Texas, Austin, 1997).

Chapter 1

1. Manuel Moreno Fraginals and Jose J. Moreno Maso, Guerra, migración y muerte: el ejercito español en Cuba como vía migratoria. (Barcelona: Fundacion Archivo de Indianos, 1993), 16. 2. Douglas B. Klusmeyer, “Aliens, Immigrants, and Citizens: The Politics of Inclusion in the Federal Republic of Germany.” Daedalus: Journal of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences 122, no. 3 (summer 1993): 84. 3. Khachig Tölölyan, “The Nation-State and Its Others: In Lieu of a Preface,” Diaspora: A Journal Transnational Studies 1, no. 1 (spring 1991): 3–7. notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 203

Notes to Pages 27–32 203

4. For an extensive study of transnational communities, see Linda Basch, Nina Glick Schiller, and Cristina Szanton Blanc, Nations Unbound: Transnational Pro- jects, PostColonial Predicaments and Deterritorialized Nation-States (Amsterdam: Gordon and Breach Publishers, 1994); and Jorge Duany, “Quisqueya on the Hud- son: The Transnational Identity of Dominicans in Washington Heights.” Domini- can Research Monographs, CUNY Domincan Studies Institute, 1994. 5. Frank Bonilla, “Migrants, Citizens, and Social Pacts,” in Edwin Melendez and Edgardo Melendez, Colonial Dilemma: Critical Perspectives on Contemporary Puerto Rico (Boston: South End Press, 1993), 181–88. 6. Nicos Poulantzas, in Political Power and Social Classes (London: New Left Books, 1980), distinguishes between types of states and regimes. Furthermore, the kinds of regimes that emerge, for instance, in capitalist states vary according to multiple factors, including the forms taken by class struggles within any particular time period. This last concept is further discussed in Poulantzas’s book Classes in Contemporary Capitalism (London: New Left Books, 1972). 7. Paul Murphy, World War I and the Origins of Civil Liberties in the United States (New York: W. W. Norton, 1979), chap. 6. 8. Richard Barnet, Roots of War: The Men and Institutions behind U.S. Foreign Policy. (Baltimore: Penguin, 1971). 9. National Security Council–68, “How to Prepare for an Inde‹nite Period of Tension and Danger,” April 1950; reprinted in Walter Lefeber, America in the Cold War: Twenty Years of Revolution and Response, 1947–1967 (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1969), 74. 10. Richard Harris Smith, The Secret History of America’s First Central Intelli- gence Agency (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972). 11. Ibid., 362. 12. Arthur Schlesinger Jr., in J. Joseph Huthmacher and Warren Susman, The Origins of the Cold War (Waltham, MA: Ginn-Blaisdell, 1970), 41. 13. Silvia Pedraza-Bailey, Political and Economic Migrants: Cubans and Mexi- cans (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1985), 10–11. 14. Alejandro Portes and Robert Bach, Latin Journey: Cuban and Mexican Immigrants in the United States (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985). Also see Lourdes Casal and Andre Hernández, “Cubans in the United States: A Survey of the Literature.” Cuban Studies 5 (July 1975): 25–51. 15. For instance, see the following two volumes: Mohammed E. Ahrari, Ethnic Groups and Foreign Policy (Westport, CT: Greenview Press, 1987); and Abdul Aziz Said, Ethnicity and U.S. Foreign Policy (New York: Praeger, 1981). 16. Nicos Poulantzas, Political Power and Social Classes (London: New Left Books, 1968). 17. Antonio Gramsci, Selections from Prison Notebooks, O. Horace and G. Nouvre Smith, eds. (New York: International Publishers, 1971). 18. Bonilla et al., Borderless Borders. 19. Murphy, World War I. 20. Ibid., 27. notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 204

204 Notes to Pages 32–37

21. See Mervin Holli and Peter d’A. Jones, eds., Ethnic Chicago (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 1977). 22. Yossi Shain, The Frontiers of Loyalty: Political Exiles in the Age of the Nation-State (Hanover, MA: Wesleyan University Press, 1989), 51. 23. For a review of the complexities of the pluralist approach, see Gabriel Almond, A Discipline Divided: Schemes and Sects in Political Science (Newbury Park, CA: Sage, 1990). 24. George Black, The Good Neighbors: How the United States Wrote the History of Central America and the Caribbean (New York: Pantheon Books, 1988). 25. Felix Padilla, “Introduction: The Sociology of Hispanic People,” in F. Padilla, ed. Handbook of Hispanic Cultures in the United States: Sociology (Hous- ton: Arte Publico Press, 1994), 13. 26. Allan Bloom, The Closing of the American Mind (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1987). 27. See the work of Renato Rosaldo, Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis (Boston: Beacon Press, 1989). 28. Juan Gomez-Quiñones, “On Culture.” Revista Chicano-Riqueno (5, no. 2 1977): 29–46. 29. Guillermo Gomez-Peña, Warrior for Gringostroika (St. Paul, MN: Grey Wolf Press, 1993). 30. Arthur Schlesinger Jr., The Disuniting of America: Re›ections on a Multicul- tural Society (New York: W. W. Norton, 1992). 31. Gustavo Pérez-Firmat, Life on the Hyphen: The Cuban-American Way (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1994). 32. David Rieff, The Exile: Cuba in the Heart of Miami (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1993). 33. Rafael Hernández, “Soñar en ingles: Comunidad Cubana, Transcultura- cion, Cultura Política” (MS, 1993). 34. Ibid., 6. 35. Marisa Alicea, “The Latino Immigration Experience: The Case of Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, and Cubanos,” in Padilla, Handbook of Hispanic Cultures, 34–56. 36. Milton Esman, “The Political Fallout of International Migration,” Dias- pora: A Journal of Transnational Studies 2, no. 1 (1992): 3–38. 37. Juan Gomez-Quiñonez, “Notes on an Interpretation of the Relations between the Mexican Community in the United States and Mexico,” in Carlos Vásquez and Manuel Garcia y Griego, eds., Mexico/U.S. Relations: Con›ict and Convergence (Los Angeles: University of California Chicano Studies Research Center Publications, 1983), 417–40. 38. The term gusanos was used in the early 1960s, escoria was the preferred term in the 1980s (see “La pocision de Cuba,” Granma, April 7, 1980), and anti-Cuban was the term used most frequently in the 1990s. 39. A national survey of Latino perspectives sought to explore these differences. See Rodolfo O. de la Garza, Louis DeSipio, F. Chris Garcia, and Angelo Falcón, Latino Voices: Mexican, Puerto Rican, and Cuban Perspectives on American Poli- tics (Boulder: Westview Press, 1992). See speci‹cally the analysis on foreign policy notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 205

Notes to Pages 37–42 205

that used data collected from this survey; Rodolfo O. de la Garza, Jerome Hernán- dez, Angelo Falcón, F. Chris Garcia, and John A. Garcia, “Mexican, Puerto Rican, and Cuban Foreign Policy Perspectives: A Test of Competing Explana- tions,” in F. Chris Garcia, ed., Pursuing Power: Latinos and the Political System (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 401–26. For a critique of the survey, see Mary Louise Pratt and Charlene Aguilar, eds., “Still Looking for America: Beyond the Latino Political Survey” (report prepared by the Public Out- reach Project, Stanford Center for Chicano Research, Stanford University, Janu- ary 1994). 40. For an extensive study of the topic, see Paul Tabori, The Anatomy of Exile: A Semantic and Historical Study (London: George Harrap, 1972), 39. 41. Ibid., 269. 42. Leon Grinberg and Rebecca Grinberg, Psychoanalytic Perspectives on Migration and Exile (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), 4. 43. Carol Breckenridge and Arjun Appadurai, “Editors’ Comments: On Moving Targets,” Public Culture 2, no. 1 (1989): i–iv. 44. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Re›ections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso Press, 1983), 187. 45. Edward W. Said, Representations of the Intellectual (New York: Vintage Books, 1996), 48–49. 46. Julia Kristeva, Strangers to Ourselves (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991). 47. An early exception is Paul Lewis, The Politics of Exile: Paraguay’s Febrerista Party (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1965). 48. Shain, Frontiers of Loyalty. 49. Cintio Vitier, Lo cubano en la poesia (La Habana: El Instituto del libro, 1970), 88–101. 50. Personal interview with Jaime Zaiger, San Antonio, Texas, May 1978. Zaiger participated in the publishing and smuggling of the newspapers. 51. Organo del 26 de julio, Miami and New York (1957–59); and a personal interview with Julio Bauta, Executive Committee Member, Chicago chapter of the 26th of July Movement, November 1984. 52. Pérez-Firmat, Life on the Hyphen. 53. Gerald Poyo, “With All, and for the Good of All”: The Emergence of Popular Nationalism in the Cuban Communities of the United States, 1848–1898 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1989). 54. U.S. Commerce Department, Bureau of the Census, 1960, 1970, 1980; and Current Population Survey, 1986.

Chapter 2

1. “Analysis of the Opposition Movement to the Castro Regime,” Foreign Ser- vice Dispatch, American Embassy, Havana, December 6, 1960; reported by W. G. Bowdlering. 2. For an extensive review of the debates about Cuban studies, see Marifeli notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 206

206 Notes to Pages 42–49

Perez-Stable, “The Field of Cuban Studies,” Latin American Research Review 26, no. 1 (1991): 239–50. 3. An exception to this was the seminal study of Cuban exile political attitudes by Richard Fagen, Richard Brody, and Thomas J. O’Leary, Cubans in Exile: Dis- affection and the Revolution (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1968). 4. See the work of Juan Clark, “The Exodus from Revolutionary Cuba (1959–1974): A Sociological Analysis” (Ph.D. diss., Dept. of Sociology, University of Florida, 1975). 5. I include my own work in this, along with that of Lourdes Argüelles, “Cuban Miami: The Roots, Development, and Everyday Life of an Émigré Enclave in the National Security State,” Contemporary Marxism 5 (summer 1982): 27–44; as well as Pedraza-Bailey, Political and Economic Migrants, 146. 6. Jorge Domínguez, Cuba: Order and Revolution (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, Harvard University, 1978), 140. 7. Rafael Hernández, “La política imigratoria de Estados Unidos y la revolu- ción cubana” (Centro de Estudios Sobre America, La Habana, Serie Avances de Investigacione no. 3, 1980). 8. For a detailed account of the various attempts to hold elections, see both Hugh Thomas, The Cuban Revolution (New York: Harper and Row, 1971); and Thomas G. Paterson, Contesting Castro: The United States and the Triumph of the Cuban Revolution (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994). 9. Marifeli Pérez-Stable, The Cuban Revolution: Origins, Course, and Legacy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), has an excellent account of the emergence of the armed struggle strategy. 10. Jaime Suchlicki, University Students and Revolution in Cuba, 1920–1968 (Miami: University of Miami Press, 1969). 11. Ibid., 84. 12. Composed with information from ibid.; Thomas, Cuban Revolution. 13. R. Hart Phillips, Cuba: Island of Paradox (New York: McDowell, Oblensky, 1957), quoted this ‹gure although the numbers have been contested and may be as low as eight thousand. 14. After the early 1960s, few references to the revolutionary movement include any organization except Movimiento 26 de Julio. In fact, Jesús Díaz’s ‹ctional ‹lm, Cladestino caused quite a stir in Havana upon its release because it legitimized the urban struggle. 15. See Domínguez, Cuba, chap. 6. 16. Thomas, Cuban Revolution, 416. 17. Ibid., 423. 18. Jay Mallin Sr., Covering Castro: Rise and Decline of Cuba’s Communist Dis- tator (New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 1994). 19. Estimates of the number of political prisoners vary widely depending on the method of counting “political” crimes, but they range from 10,000 to 20,000. See María Cristina Garcia, Havana, USA: Cuban Exiles and Cuban Americans in South Florida (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 156–57. 20. Tomas Fernández-Travieso, “Los ocho fusilados,” El Nuevo Herald, April 17, 1991, p. 4. notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 207

Notes to Pages 50–55 207

21. Foreign Service Dispatch no. 100, April 21, 1960. 22. For an extensive review of the literature of postrevolutionary immigration, see Lisandro Pérez, “Migration from Socialist Cuba: A Critical Analysis of the Lit- erature,” in Miren Uriarte and Jorge Cañas, eds., Cubans in the United States (Boston: Center for the Study of the Cuban Community, 1984), 12–22. 23. In Pedraza-Bailey, Political and Economic Migrants, 151. 24. Quoted in ibid., 150; from New York Times, July 23, 1961. 25. Quoted in ibid., 149; from New York Times, November 12, 1960. 26. Law no. 989, Gaceta O‹cial de la Republica de Cuba, miercoles, December 1, 1962, 23705. 27. Abel Enrique Hart Santamaría, Delitos contra la seguridad del estado (Havana: Editorial de Ciencias Sociuales, 1988), 76. 28. See the work of Hugo Azcuy, “Los derechos fundamentales de los Cubanos y la cuestion de la emigracion en las relaciones Cuba-Estado Unidos” (paper presented at the Latin American Studies Association, Cuban-Community Research group meeting, Chicago, April 1995). 29. Domínguez, Cuba, 37. 30. Rex A. Hudson, “Castro’s America Department” (Washington, DC: Cuban- American National Foundation, Departamento de las Americas pamphlet, 1991). 31. Santamaría, Delitos contra la seguridad del estado, 171. 32. Earl Smith, El Cuarto Piso: Relato sobre la revolucion comunista de Castro (Santo Domingo: Editora Corripio, 1983). 33. Fidel Castro, La historia me absolvera (speech given at his trial after the failed assault on the military garrison, Moncada, 1953), (Havana: Editorial Cien- cias Sociales, 1973). 34. Barnet, Roots of War; and Saul Landau, The Dangerous Doctrine: National Security and U.S. Foreign Policy (Boulder: Westview Press, 1988). 35. Carlos Forment, “Caribbean Geopolitics and Foreign State Sponsored Social Movements: The Case of Cuban Exiles Militancy, 1959–1979,” in Uriarte- Gaston and Canas, Cubans in the United States, 65–102. 36. Argüelles, “Cuban Miami,” 27–44. 37. Philip Brenner, From Confrontation to Negotiations: U.S. Cuba Relations (Boulder: Westview Press, 1988), 12. 38. William Appleman Williams, The United States, Cuba, and Castro (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1962), 122. 39. CIA document entitled “A Program of Covert Action against the Castro Regime,” March 16, 1960, 1 (approved for release June 18, 1988, MR Care No. 88–21). 40. U.S. Congress, Senate Committee on Foreign Relations Executive Sessions of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee (Historical Series), vol. 10, 85th Cong., 2d sess., 1958, in Lars Schoultz, National Security and the United States Policy toward Latin America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), 16. 41. Peter Wyden, Bay of Pigs: The Untold Story (New York: Touchstone, 1979), 100. 42. Ibid., 76. 43. Williams, in United States, Cuba, and Castro, adds that “he was also connotes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 208

208 Notes to Pages 56–60

cerned for his power, his externalization of evil, and his urge to control the future while still in the present” (152). 44. Correspondence between Joseph Scott, December 2, 1960, and Mr. Hager, December 7, 1960, addressed to Mr. Merchant; obtained from the State Depart- ment’s Freedom of Information Of‹ce, identi‹ed as being from the State Depart- ment’s Cuba ‹le, 1960, 737.00/12/2/60. 45. Haynes Johnson, with Manuel Artime, José Pérez San Román, Erneido Oliva, and Enriquez Ruíz-Williams, The Bay of Pigs: The Leaders Story of Brigade 2506 (New York: W. W. Norton, 1964), 29. 46. A memo to the secretary from Mr. Mann on the subject of the President’s Inquiry Regarding Cuban Opposition groups, dated October 28, 1960; obtained from State Department’s Freedom of Information Of‹ce. 47. Department of State, Memorandum of Conversation, Cuba Series; participants, Ambassador Philip Bonsal and Dr. Aureliano Sanchez Arango, February 3, 1961, 737.00/2–361. 48. Argüelles, “Cuban Miami,” 31. 49. Wyden, Bay of Pigs, 49. 50. Johnson et al., Bay of Pigs, 62. 51. Department of State, Cuba Series, Foreign Service Dispatch no. 397, Amer- ican Embassy, Mexico, D.F., October 1960, Report of Conversation with Jose (Pepin) Bosch reported by R. G. Cushing and J. J. Montllor, 737.00/10–1160. 52. Department of State, Cuba Series, Memorandum of Conversation, February 4, 1961; participants, Carlos Piad and Ambassador. Philip W. Bonsal, 737.00/2–461. 53. Memorandum for director of Central Intelligence Agency from Tracy Barnes, March 21, 1961, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library, National Security Council Files, Cuba, box 48. 54. Ibid. 55. Report sent to Dean Rusk, secretary of state, from the Department of State, Cuba Series, March 23, 1961, 737.00/3–2361. 56. Johnson et al., Bay of Pigs, 62. 57. Andrew Wilson, “Portrait of a Cuban Refugee,” Central Intelligence Agency, Studies in Intelligence (summer 1964): 35–41. 58. Arthur Schlesinger Jr., memorandum for Kenneth O’Donnell, May 8, 1961, John F. Kennedy (JFK) Presidential Library, White House Papers, Arthur Schlesinger Jr. ‹les, box 5. 59. Arthur Schlesinger Jr., April 21, 1961, box 115, Presidential Papers, JFK Presidential Library. 60. “Alleged Assassination Plots Involving Foreign Leaders: An Interim Report of the Select Committee to Study Governmental Operations with Respect to Intel- ligence Activities,” United States Senate, 94th Cong., November 20, 1975, report no. 94–465. 61. Shain, Frontiers of Loyalty, 23. 62. Paterson, Contesting Castro. 63. Forment, “Caribbean Geopolitics.” 64. Ibid., 66. notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 209

Notes to Pages 62–71 209

Chapter 3

1. Department of State, incoming telegram, classi‹ed secret and declassi‹ed, Cuba series, no. 1726, October, 13, 1960. 2. Letter from Thomas Mann, assistant state secretary, acknowledging receipt of letter from Bonsal on the Miró Cardona matter, Department of State, October 18, 1960. 3. Department of State, memorandum of conversation, March 23, 1960. 4. Department of State, memorandum of conversation, November 29, 1960, 2. 5. Ibid., 3. 6. State Department bulletin, January 17, 1961, 659–60. 7. Department of State, memorandum of conversation, June 21, 1961. 8. Personal interview with Wendell Rollason, November 14, 1993, Ft. Myers, FL. 9. Declassi‹ed letter from Robert Hurwitch, of‹cer in charge of Cuban affairs, to Dr. de Varona, Department of State, August 9, 1961. 10. Robert Bach, “Western Hemispheric Immigration to the United States: A Review of Selected Research Trends” (Hemispheric Migration Project, Occasional Paper Series, Center for Immigration Policy and Refugee Assistance, Georgetown University and the Intergovernmental Committee for Migration, March 1985), i. 11. Department of State memorandum, no. 2540, December 19, 1960. 12. Cuba, Department of State Publication no. 7171, Inter-American Series 66 (Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Of‹ce, April, 1961). 13. Quoted in Felix Masud-Piloto, With Open Arms: Cuban Migration to the United States (New Jersey: Rowman and Little‹eld, 1988), 33. 14. Jorge Domínguez, “Cooperating with the Enemy? U.S. Immigration Policy toward Cuba,” in Christopher Mitchell, ed., Western Hemisphere Immigration and United States Foreign Policy (State College: Pennsylvania Sate University Press, 1992), 31–88. 15. Department of Health, Education, and Welfare Roll no. 44, memo from John F. Kennedy, January 27, 1961, JFK Presidential Library, Boston. 16. Report of Abraham Ribicoff on the Cuban Refugee Problem, February 2, 1961, JFK Presidential Library. 17. Migration and Refugee Assistance, Hearing before Subcommittee No. 1 of Committee of the Judiciary, House of Representatives, 87th Cong., August 3, 1961, 40. 18. Ibid., 46. 19. Hearings before the Subcommittee to Investigate Problems Connected with Refugees and Escapees, of the Committee on the Judiciary, United States Senate, 87th Cong., 1st sess., December 6, 7, 13, 1961, 205. 20. Ibid., 161–62. 21. Ibid., 229. 22. Abba Schwartz and Allen Moreland, of the Bureau of Security and Consular Affairs, as well as George Phelan, chief of the Documentation Branch of the State Department, were questioned about security procedures. notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 210

210 Notes to Pages 71–75

23. Lyndon B. Johnson (LBJ) Presidential Library, National Security File, Country File, “Cuba, Refugees,” box 30, November 1965; declassi‹ed, December 17, 1993. 24. Argüelles, “Cuban Miami,” 30. 25. Pedraza-Bailey, Political and Economic Migrants, 75. 26. John Scalan and Gilbert Loescher, “U.S. Foreign Policy 1959–1980: Impact on Refugee Flow from Cuba,” Annals, AAPSS 467 (May 1983): 116–37. 27. Pedraza-Bailey, Political and Economic Migrants, 148. 28. Domínguez, Cuba, 137. 29. “Cuban Refugee Problem,” Hearings before the Subcommittee to Investi- gate Problems Connected with Refugees and Escapees of the Committee on the Judiciary, United States Senate, pt. 1, December 6, 7, 13, 1961, 49. 30. Quoted in Lisandro Pérez, “Cuban Miami,” in Guillermo Grenier and Alex Stepick, Miami Now! Immigration, Ethnicity, and Social Change (Gainesville: Uni- versity Press of Florida, 1992), 87 31. For contextualization of this relocation program, see Robert Bach, “Settle- ment Policies in the United States,” in Gary Freeman and James Jupp, eds., Nations of Immigrants: Australia, the United States, and International Migration (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1992), 145–64. 32. Rafael Prohías and Lourdes Casal, The Cuban Minority in the United States: Preliminary Report on Need Identi‹cation and Program Evaluation (Boca Raton: Florida Atlantic University, 1973). 33. Fagen, Brody, and O’Leary, Cubans in Exile. 34. Lourdes Casal, “Cubans in the United States: Their Impact on U.S.-Cuba Relations,” in Martin Weinstein, ed., Revolutionary Cuba in the World (Philadel- phia: ISPH Press, 1979), 112. 35. E. Lineham, “Cuba’s Exiles Bring New Life to Miami,” National Geographic 144 (July 1973): 68–95. The myth of the golden exile was found in the following publications as well: T. Alexander, “Those Amazing Cuban Émigrés,” Fortune 74 (October 1966): 144–46; Al Burt, “Miami: The Cuban Flavor,” U.S. News and World Report 62 (March 1967): 104–6; “Cubans Take Off on SBA Test Run,” Busi- ness Week 21 (June 1969): 41; “Cuba’s New Refugees Get Jobs Fast: Opportunities in the United States,” Business Week 12 (March 1966): 69; “Flight from Cuba: Cas- tro’s Loss Is U.S. Gain,” U.S. News and World Report 70 (May 1971): 74–77; “Havana, Florida,” Newsweek (September 1969); “Havana in Exile,” Economist 228 (August 1968): 33–34; “How the Immigrants Made It in Miami,” Business Week (May 1971): 88–89; S. Jacoby, “Miami Si, Cuba No,” New York Times Mag- azine (September 1974): 28; “Making It in Miami: Cuban Style,” Life (December 1971): 36–41; “Bienvenidos! to Cuban Refugees,” Readers Digest 90 (February 1967): 19–24; “Success with a Spanish Accent,” Nation Business 60 (March 1972): 78–80. 36. Alejandro Portes, “Dilemmas of a Golden Exile: Integration of Cuban Refugee Families in Milwaukee,” American Sociological Review 34 (August 1969): 505–18. 37. For a more complete analysis of these statistics, see Lisandro Pérez, “Immi- notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 211

Notes to Pages 75–79 211

grant Economic Adjustment and Family Reorganization: The Cuban Success Story Reexamined,” International Migration Review 20 (spring 1986): 4–20. 38. Yolanda Prieto, “Cuban Women in the U.S. Labor Force: Perspectives on the Nature of Change,” Cuban Studies / Estudios Cubanos 17: 73–91. Also see María Cristina García, “Cuban Women in the United States,” in Padilla, Hand- book of Hispanic Cultures, 203–18. 39. A group of economists at Florida International University has published extensively on the waste of human resources present in the Cuban community. For a sampling of their work, see Antonio Jorge and Raul Moncarz, “A Case of Subu- tilization and Dislocation of Human Capital Resources: The Cubans in the United States” (Working Paper, Human Resources and Development Program, College of Business at the University of Texas, San Antonio, 1981). 40. Marifeli Pérez-Stable and Miren Uriarte, “Cubans and the Changing Econ- omy of Miami,” in Rebecca Morales and Frank Bonilla, eds., Latinos in a Chang- ing U.S. Economy (Newbury Park, CA: Sage Publications, 1993). 41. L. Pérez, “Cuban Miami,” 91. 42. Alejandro Portes and Robert Bach, Latin Journey: Cuban and Mexican Immigrants in the United States (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), chap. 6. 43. Lourdes Argüelles and Gary McGoin, “El Miami Cubano.” Areito 7, no. 28 (1980): 4–15. 44. Carlos Forment, “Political Practice and the Rise of an Ethnic Enclave: The Cuban-American Case, 1959–1979,” Theory and Society 18 (January 1989): 47–81. 45. Alejandro Portes and Alex Stepick, City on the Edge: The Transformation of Miami (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 140–44. 46. Portes and Bach, Latin Journey, chap. 8. 47. Juan Gomez Quiñonez, “On Culture,” Revista Chicano-Riqueno 5, no. 2 (1977): 29–46. 48. Casal, in Weinstein, Revolutionary Cuba in the World, 121. 49. “A Study on Cuban Unity against Castro, by a Special Committee of the Supreme Court Justices of the Supreme Court of Cuba,” 1963, JFK Presidential Library, White House Papers, Arthur Schlesinger Jr. ‹les, box 5. 50. Ibid. 51. Outgoing telegram, Department of State, to Dr. Julio Garceran, drafted by Robert Hurwitch, signed by Wymberley Coerr, at the time acting assistant secretary of state, October 7, 1961, JFK Presidential Library, White House Papers, Arthur Schlesinger Jr. ‹les, box 1. 52. Comite Pro-Referendum, JFK Presidential Library, Robert Kennedy, Attorney General Correspondence, box 14. 53. Department of State airgram, April 13, 1964, from the LBJ Library, NSF Cuba Files, box 22, Exile Activities, Cables, vol. 1, 11/63–11/65. 54. White House memorandum for attorney general, October 1963, JFK Presi- dential Library, Robert Kennedy, Attorney General Concerns, box 14. 55. For documents about Operation Mongoose see Foreign Relations of the notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 212

212 Notes to Pages 79–88

United States, 1961–1963, vol. 10, Cuba, 1961–1962 (Department of State, Wash- ington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Of‹ce, 1977). 56. Lourdes Argüelles, “El Miami Cubano,” Areito 7, no. 28 (1980): 4–15. 57. Domínguez, Cuba, 253. 58. Carlos Forment, “Caribbean Geopolitics and Foreign State Sponsored Social Movements: The Case of Cuban Exile Militancy, 1959–1979,” in Uriarte and Cañas, Cubans in the United States, 65–101. 59. Papers of Lyndon B. Johnson, LBJ Presidential Library, Presidential National Security–Defense, box 419, November 22, 1963–October 19, 1965. 60. For an excellent account of the development of Cuban identity on the enclave, see María Cristina Garcia, Havana, USA: Cuban Exiles and Cuban Amer- icans in South Florida, 1959–1994 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), chap. 3. 61. “Review of Current Program of Covert Action against Cuba,” background paper for a discussion on CIA covert actions against Cuba, April 7, 1964, LBJ Presidential Library, NSF-Country Files, boxes 24–25. 62. Gordon Chase, memorandum for Mr. McGeorge Bundy, subject: Cuban Policy–April to November 1964, March 23, 1964, LBJ Presidential Library, NSF, Cuba Files, Cuba/U.S. Policy, 2, December 1963–July 1965, boxes 26–29. 63. Hinckle and Warren, The Fish Is Red: The Story of the Secret War against Castro (New York: Harper and Row, 1981), chap. 9.

Chapter 4

1. Lourdes Casal, “Cubans in the United States and Their Impact on U.S.- Cuba Relations,” in M. Weinstein, ed., Revolutionary Cuba in the World (Philadel- phia: ISPH, 1979), 124. 2. Lourdes Casal and Rafael Prohía, The Cuban Minority in the United States: A Preliminary Report on Need Identi‹cation and Program Evaluation (Boca Raton: Florida Atlantic University, 1973). 3. This group set up the Spanish Family Guidance Clinic in Miami. Among the early publications of their work is Jose Szapocznick, Javier Lasaga, and Priscella Perry, “Outreach in the Delivery of Mental Health Services to the Elderly,” His- panic Journal of Behavioral Sciences 1, no. 1 (1979): 21–40. 4. Blake Fleetwood, “I Am Going to Declare War,” New Times, May 13, 1977, p. 1. 5. These groups also “freelanced.” For instance, Orlando Letelier and Ronnie Mof‹tt were killed by Cuban terrorists working closely with the Chilean intelligence agenda, DINA; see John Dinges and Saul Landau, Assassination on Embassy Row (New York: Pantheon Books, 1980); and Donald Freed with Fred Landis, The Murder of Orlando Letelier: Death in Washington (Westport, CT: Lawrence Hill and Co., 1980). 6. María Cristina Herrera, “Prologo.” Exilio (winter 1969): 12. 7. Guarioné Díaz, “El proceso de pluralización del exilio cubano.” Nueva gen- eración (November 1970). notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 213

Notes to Pages 89–97 213

8. Abdala Newsletter, July 1980, “A Social Democratic Alternative to the Cuban Dilemma.” Also see “Abdala condena devolución de cubanos por el gobierno chileno,” La Raza (August 25–31, 1982). 9. Grupo Areíto, Contra Viento y Marea (Havana: UNEAC, 1978); Jesús Díaz, Del exilio a la patria (Havana: UNEAC, 1979). 10. Philip Brenner, From Confrontation to Negotiation: U.S. Relations with Cuba (Boulder: Westview Press, 1988), 18. 11. For an of‹cial island perspective on the changing nature of U.S. foreign policies, see El Imperialismo Norte Americano Contemporáneo (Havana: Centro de Estudios sobre América), 1984. 12. Personal interview with Manolo Gómez, president of the Cuban-American Committee, September 1979. 13. Interview, Roberto Rodobaldo Pentón, person in charge of the Cuban community for the Ministry of the Interior, 1992. 14. Jesús Díaz, dir., 55 Hermanos, ‹lm (ICAIC, 1978). This documentary about the ‹rst group of Cuban-Americans returning to Cuba had a tremendous impact on the Cuban population. 15. Grupo Areíto, Contra Viento y Marea. 16. Areito 4, nos. 3–4 (spring 1978), is dedicated to the Antonio Maceo Brigade. 17. Areito, special issue (spring 1978): 4–5. 18. Dagmaris Cabezas, “The Cuban Exiles: You Can Go Home Again,” Nation, June 7, 1980, p. 1. 19. “Interview with President Fidel Castro,” Areíto 6 (September 1979). 20. Lourdes Casal, “Invitación al Díalogo,” Areíto 6 (September 1979). 21. Conferencia de prensa de Dr. Fidel Castro, Primer Díalogo (press conference, Dr. Fidel Castro, the First Dialogue). November 21, 1978, reported by Weekly Newshow, ICAIC, no. 894. 22. Baragúa 1, no. 1 (spring 1979): 2. 23. Acuerdos O‹ciales de las Discusiones entre representantes del gobierno de Cuba y representatives de la comunidad cubana en el exterior (Of‹cial agreements of discussions between Cuban government of‹cials and representatives of the Cuban Community Abroad). December 7, 1978. 24. “Conferencia de Prensa de Fidel,” Juventud Rebelde, December 10, 1978. 25. Wayne Smith, The Closest of Enemies: A Personal and Diplomatic History of the Castro Years (New York: W. W. Norton, 1987), 163. 26. Bernardo Benes, “Mis Conversaciones Secretas Con Fidel Castro, Memo- ria,” available at the Special Collections Library, University of Miami, 1994. 27. Smith, Closest of Enemies,159. 28. Among the organizations advocating this position was Abdala; see, for instance, Abdala newspaper, February–March 1979. 29. Max Azicri, “Un analisis pragmatico del Díalogo entre la Cuba del interior y del exterior,” Areito 5, nos. 19–20 (1979): 4. 30. Decision making in Cuba is highly centralized, and, while there is some indication that the decision to permit the Antonio Maceo Brigade to visit was dis- notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 214

214 Notes to Pages 98–103

cussed in the Politburo of the Communist Party, it was not debated openly. Rather, the decision was simply announced. 31. Ministry of Foreign Relations, “Instrucciones a los Consulados de la Repub- lica de Cuba en relación con los resultados del Acta Final de Diálogo Celebrado entre el Gobierno de la Republica de Cuba y personalidades representativas de la comunidad Cubana en el exterior” (Instructions to consulates of the Republic of Cuba regarding the results of the Final Accords of the Dialogue held with the government of Cuba and representative personalities of the Cuban community abroad). Havana, Cuba, January 1979. 32. Manolo Gómez, “El exilio pide relaciones con Cuba,” Areito 5, nos. 19–20 (1979): 7–9. 33. “Un Grupo de Cubanos Que Trabaja en Miami por la reuni‹cación familiar,” Replica, November 21, 1979. 34. Boletín, Círculo de Cultura Cubana, “Qué es el Círculo de Cultura Cubana?” no. 1 (1981). 35. Achy Obejas, “Cuban Left Spreads Its U.S. Roots,” Miami News (October 1981). 36. Jeff Stein, “Inside Omega 7,” Village Voice, March 10, 1980. 37. Jeff Stein, “An Army in Exile,” New York, September 10, 1979, 42–49. 38. Jim McGee, “Anti-Castro Terrorists of Omega 7 Find New Base in South Florida,” Miami Herald, January 1983, 1. 39. El Cubano Libre, one of the hundreds of little newspapers in Miami, published a list called “1,100 Collaborators and Dialogueros.” 40. “Nogueras vinculado a asesinos de joven cubano” (Claridad, February 19–25, 1982), ‹rst broke this news. It was later published by other papers as well. 41. Stein, “Inside Omega 7”; “An Army in Exile.” 42. For instance, the campaign is described in the American Civil Liberties Union, Ann Arbor–Washtenaw newsletter entitled “Omega 7 vs. the Bill of Rights,” April 1980. 43. House Bill 2988, introduced in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts by Mel King, 1989. 44. Miami, Florida, November 27, 1979, letter signed and cirulated by the Arch- diocese of Miami. 45. A letter from the Archdiocese of Newark, November 28, 1979. 46. Elizabeth Schneider, “The Basis of and Need for a Coordinated Federal and State Investigation and Prosecution of Cuban Exile Terrorism” (MS, Rutgers Uni- versity Law School, Constitutional Litigation Clinic, May 1979). 47. In 1980 the FBI reported that Omega 7 was the most dangerous terrorist group in the United States. See Herman, “Highest Priority Given by U.S. to Cap- ture Anti-Castro Group,” New York Times, March 3, 1980, 1–3. 48. Personal interview with Franklin Garcia, a founding member of Hispanic- American Democrats, Austin, Texas, June 1980. 49. Other scholars have emphasized the local reaction to the Mariel immigration as the impetus for this change; see, for example, Portes and Stepick, City on the Edge, chap. 2. I would argue that the dynamics for this change were already in place before Mariel. notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 215

Notes to Pages 108–15 215

Chapter 5

1. Bernardo Benes, 1994. 2. Editorial, “La Posición de Cuba,” Granma, April 7, 1980, p. 1. 3. Prensa Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores de Cuba, April 14, 1980, Circu- lar no. 433. 4. Alina Fernández, in Alina: Memorias de Una Hija Rebelde (Barcelona: Plaza and Janes, 1997), discusses what was openly talked about in Cuba (170). 5. Jorge Castañeda, Utopia Unarmed: The Latin American Left after the Cold War (New York: Vintage Books, 1994), 51–67. 6. For instance, see Rafael Hernández, “La política inmigratoria de Estados Unidos y la revolucion cubana,” Avances de investigación, no. 3 (August 1980); Mercedes Arce, “La política de Cuba hacia la comunidad cubano-americana: una eveluacíon de los años 80” (paper presented at the XVI Congress of Latin Ameri- can Studies Association, Washington, DC, April 4–6, 1991); and María Teresa Miyar Bolio, “La política de Cuba hacia la comunidad Cubana en el contexto de las relaciones Cuba / Estados Unidos 1959–1980,” February 1991, MS, University of Havana. 7. Frank Viviano, “The New Immigrants,” Mother Jones (January 1983): 28–29. 8. Brian Hufker and Gray Cavender, “From Freedom Flotilla to America’s Burden: The Social Construction of the Mariel Immigrants,” Sociological Quar- terly 31, no. 2 (1990): 321–35. 9. Robert Bach, “The New Cuban Immigrants: Their Backgrounds and Prospects,” Monthly Labor Review 103, no. 10 (1980): 39–46; and Clyde B. McCoy and Diana Gonzalez, “Cuban Immigration and Immigrants in Florida and the United States: Implications for Immigration Policy,” University of Florida, Bureau of Economic and Business Research, Issue No. 3, November 1985. 10. S. Taylor, “Latinos Training in U.S. Raise Questions of Criminal and Inter- national Law,” New York Times, January 18, 1982. 11. “Esperar en una manera de vencer dice el Dr. Orlando Bosch,” Abdala, no. 71 (May 1984). 12. The new business sector has been examined as a case study of political empowerment; see Darío Moreno, “The Cuban Model: Political Empowerment in Miami,” in Chris Garcia, ed. Pursuing Power: Latinos and the Political System (Notre Dame, IN: Notre Dame Press, 1997), 208–26. 13. Portes and Stepick, City on the Edge, chap. 2. 14. R. Tambs, ed., A New Inter-American Policy for the Eighties (Washington, DC: Council on Inter-American Security, 1980). 15. “Listo el plan para la invasión de Cuba,” Semanal Extra, April 10, 1981. 16. Interview with Roger Fontaine, reported by Lourdes Argüelles, in Lourdes Argüelles and María de los Angeles Torres, “La comunidad cubana en la política de los Estados Unidos,” Material de Trabajo, no. 4 (Havana: Centro de Estudios sobre America, 1983). 17. Gaeton Fonzi, “Who Is Jorge Más Canosa?” Esquire (January 1993): 121. notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 216

216 Notes to Pages 115–24

18. Cathy Booth, “The Man Who Would Oust Castro,” Time, October 26, 1992, 56. 19. José de Cordoba, “A Miami Businessman is Angling, Some Say, To Succeed Castro,” Wall Street Journal, May 11, 1990, p. 1. Also, R. A. Zaldívar, “Cuban Lobby Courts Allies, Reaps Clout,” Miami Herald, Aug. 11, 1986, p. 1. 20. Phone interview with José Cardenas, Cuban-American National Founda- tion, August 19, 1993. 21. Zaldívar, “Cuban Lobby Courts Allies, Reaps Clout,” 1. 22. Fonzi, “Who Is Jorge Más Canosa?” 122. 23. John Spicer Nichols, “Cuba: The Congress; the Power of the Anti-Castro Lobby,” Nation, October 24, 1988, p. 389–92. 24. The ban on travel to Cuba, in place since the early 1960s, had been found unconstitutional, and the Carter administration lifted it at the same time that it permitted increased exchanges with the island. 25. L. Boudin, Department of the Treasury, Of‹ce of Foreign Assets Control, 31 C.F.R., pt. 15, April 20, 1982. 26. Ruth Wald v. Donald Regan, U.S. Court of Appeals, no. 82–1695, May 16, 1983. 27. Ronald Copeland, “The Cuban Boatlift of 1980: Strategies in Federal Crisis Management,” Annals of the American Academy 467 (May 1983): 138–50. 28. Damian Fernández, “From Little Havana to Washington,” in M. Ahrari, ed., Ethnic Groups and U.S. Foreign Policy (New York: Greenwood Press, 1987). 29. Tambs, New Inter-American Policy. 30. Marifeli Pérez-Stable, “Diversidad y política de Cubanos,” El Nuevo Herald, October 7, 1985, 5. 31. Marazul, one of the travel agencies that charters trips to Cuba, publishes a monthly newsletter. The January 1987 issue discusses the prices of such trips. 32. In the summer of 1989 I reviewed all of ICAIC’s weekly newsreels. After 1961 exiles appeared during Camarioca in 1965 and then not again until the 1977 visit of the Antonio Maceo Brigade. 33. Directory of Hispanic Appointees in the Reagan Administration (Washington, DC: GPO, 1983). 34. See Max J. Castro, “The Politics of Language in Miami,” in Guillermo Gre- nier and Alex Stepick III, eds., Miami Now! (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1992), 109–32. 35. Personal interview with Don Hayes, Republican Party organizer, June 1983. 36. Southwest Voter Registration and Education Project, Analysis of the His- panic Vote in 1984 Presidential Elections (San Antonio, TX, 1984). 37. Darío Moreno and Nicol Rae, “Ethnicity and Partnership: The Eighteenth Congressional District in Miami,” in Grenier and Stepick, Miami Now! 186–204. 38. National Report (NALEO newsletter) 9, no. 3 (fall 1989): 1. 39. Southwest Voter Registration and Education Project, 1984; and Manolo Gomez, “The Hispanic Vote in the Election.” U.S.-Cuba Bulletin 3, no. 1 (Febru- ary 1985): 1–6. 40. Midwest Voter Registration and Education Project, Exit Poll, 1983 Chicago notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 217

Notes to Pages 124–32 217

Mayoral Elections. Fifty-two percent of Cubans surveyed voted for Harold Wash- ington in 1983. Also see Richard Santillan, “Latino Politics in the Midwestern United States: 1915–1986,” in Garcia, ed. (1988), 99–120. 41. In the 1987 mayoral campaign, Cuban-Americans gave a higher proportion of their vote to Harold Washington than any other Latino group. In the primary election 68 percent of Cuban-Americans surveyed voted for Washington, and in the general election 72 percent of Cuban-American votes were cast for Washington. 42. The regional differences showed up even in regard to Cuba. See Guillermo Grenier, Hugh Gladwin, and Douglas McLaughen, principal investigators, “The 1995 FIU Cuba Poll: Views on Policy Options toward Cuba Held by Cuban- American Residents of Dade County, Florida and Union City, New Jersey” (MS, April 1995). 43. M. Gómez, Cuban-Americans, Hispanics, and the 1984 Presidential Election (Washington, DC: Cuban-American Committee, 1984). 44. Personal interview with Bob Bailon, Republican National Committee, May 1983; and Bernie Sweeney, coordinator, Ethnic Liaison Of‹ce for the Republican Party, May 1983. 45. Alejandro Portes, “The Rise of Ethnicity: Determinants of Ethnic Percep- tions among Cuban Exiles in Miami,” American Sociological Review (June 1984): 383–97. 46. There is an extensive literature on ethnic groups and foreign policy; see, for instance, Mohammed E. Ahrari, ed., Ethnic Groups and U.S. Foreign Policy (New York: Greenwood Press, 1987); Laurence Halley, Ancient Affections: Ethnic Groups and Foreign Policy (New York: Praeger, 1985); and Abdul Aziz Said, ed., Ethnicity and U.S. Foreign Policy (New York: Praeger, 1981).

Chapter 6

1. Senator Claiborne Pell, The United States and Cuba: Time for a New Begin- ning (report of a trip to Cuba, November 24–28, 1988, December 1988; report to the Committee on Foreign Relations, United States Senate, December 1988). 2. Armando Valladares, Against All Hope: The Prison Memoirs of Armando Valladares (New York: Alfred Knopf, 1986). 3. “Opportunities of U.S.-Cuban Trade” (study by the Cuban Studies Program of the Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies, June 1988). 4. For instance, see report of the Institute for Policy Studies, “U.S.-Cuban Relations in a Time of International Change,” U.S.-Cuba Dialogue Project, May 1989. 5. Hearings on the Cuban situation, Subcommittee on Western Hemispheric Affairs, Committee on Foreign Relations, August 1, 1989. 6. Sec. 2502 (a), Omnibus Trade and Competitiveness Act, no. 100–416, 102 Stat. (also known as the Berman amendment). 7. Felix Masud-Piloto, From Welcomed Exiles to Illegal Immigrants: Cuban Immigration to the U.S., 1959–1995 (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Little‹eld, 1996). notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 218

218 Notes to Pages 133–40

8. Testimony provided to Congress by Jorge Más Canosa, reported in Cuban Monitor 1, no. 5 (November 1988), p. 1. 9. Susana Bellido, “Muerte de balsera en tormenta se vuelve simbolo de exodo cubano,” El Nuevo Herald, March 25, 1993. 10. Interview with Mercedes Arce, then coordinator of the Cuban community component at the University Center, Centro de Investigaciones sobre los Estados Unidos (CISEU), November 1987. 11. For instance, see the writings of Jesús Arboleya, formerly in charge of the Cuban community project for the Ministry of the Interior, “El Poder de la Extrema Derecha Cubanamericana,” in Gran Familia: Revista de la Emigracion Cubana 1, no. 1 (October–December 1995): 15–17, Havana Miami: The U.S.-Cuba Migration Con›ict, Melbourne, Australia: Ocean Press, 1996. 12. Mercedes Arce, in a document dated July 2, 1991, which analyzed the politics of the Cuban community, refers to Fidel Castro’s goal for the 1978 Dialogue as “exploit the contradictons in the community to confront the counterrevolution.” Archives of the CEAP, University of Havana. 13. In the summer of 1990 I was invited as a research fellow by the University of Havana Centro de Estudios de Alternativas Políticas, where I had an opportunity to review memos written by the island conference participants, including Ricardo Alarcón, at the time the minister of foreign relations. 14. See, for instance, “Cuba in Crisis,” Congressional Quarterly 1, no. 28, November 29, 1991. 15. Ana Santiago, “Cuba Reduce edad para viajes,” El Nuevo Herald, March 6, 1991, 1. 16. Sandra Dibble, “Cuba Eases Restrictions on Visits from Exiles,” Miami Her- ald, September 15, 1990, 20A. 17. Luciano García, “Servicio de envios rapidos a Cuba,” El Nuevo Herald, March 12, 1989, p. 3. 18. Cynthia Corzo, “Exiliados timidos con visas a Cuba,” El Nuevo Herald, March 28, 1993, 1B. 19. For instance, “Criterio Alternativo,” signed by many renowned writers and poets, outlined a political platform with the most popular demands that had been ignored by the Communist Party Congress. 20. Juventud Rebelde, the Young Communists newspaper (December 1990), carried various articles on the controversy, including the demand to have a more inclusive de‹nition of culture. Nonetheless, the Young Communists gave a negative portrayal of the demands. 21. Coco Fusco, “Made in Havana in Mexico,” Village Voice, November 29, 1992, p. 1. 22. I was in Havana in the summer of 1992. I returned in November to ‹nd that these individuals had all been removed from their posts. 23. “Cuban Museum in Miami Hit by Bomb Blast,” Washington Post, June 15, 1990. 24. Myra MacPherson, “The Great Cuban Art Bust,” Washington Post, August 24, 1989, C1. notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 219

Notes to Pages 140–53 219

25. Ramon Cernuda and Editorial Cernuda vs. George Heavy, regional commissioner, Department of Treasury, case no. 89–1265-CIV-RYSKAMP, ‹led Septem- ber 18, 1989. Also, José de Cordoba, “U.S. Customs Raid on Contraband Art Ignites Miami Furor,” Wall Street Journal, August 7, 1989, p. 1. 26. Liz Balmaseda, “Ramon Cernuda and the Art of Controversy,” Miami Her- ald, July 23, 1989, 1G. 27. Personal interview with Ramon Cernuda, June 30, 1990. 28. Manuel Ramón de Zayas, “Who’s on First? The Cuban Political Ballgame,” Apuntes Postmodernos 1, no. 2 (spring 1991): 8–27. 29. Laura Parker, “Government in Exile Waits in Dry Docks with Miami’s Cubans,” Washington Post National Weekly Review, April 30–May 6, 1990, 18. 30. Beth Duff Sanders, “War Games: The Men of Alpha 66 Still Dream of Over- throwing Cuba’s Castro,” Sun-Sentinel, April 22, 1990, p. 1. 31. Quoted in “Cuba in Crisis,” Congressional Quarterly Report 1, no. 28 (November 29, 1991): 908. 32. Rodrigo Lazo and Dan Holly, “Regentes se oponen a instituto en FIU,” El Nuevo Herald, May 10, 1989, p. 1A. 33. Frank Calzón, “CANF’S Institute Idea Noble but Poorly Conceived,” El Nuevo Herald, May 10, 1989, 31A. Also, Editorial, “What Price Integrity,” Miami Herald, May 5, 1989, p. 20A. 34. Constanza Montaña, “U.S. Denies Visas to Cuban Band,” Chicago Tribune, May 4, 1989, p. 1B. 35. See exchange of letters between Jorge Más Canosa and David Lawrence, publisher of the Miami Herald, April 5, 1992, p. 26A. 36. Mirta Ojito, “Exiliados toman la palabra a Bush,” El Nuevo Herald, viernes, July 6, 1990, 1. 37. David Kidwell and Luis Feldstein Soto, “Foundation Refugee Aid Criti- cized,” Miami Herald, April 12, 1991, p. 1. 38. William Watts, “The United States and Cuba: Changing Perceptions, New Policies?” (MS, Johns Hopkins University School of Advanced International Studies, 1989). 39. See their report, Blue Ribbon Commission on the Reconstruction of Cuba, a project of the Cuban-American National Foundation. 40. Christopher Marquis, “Proponen Otro Díalogo con Castro,” El Nuevo Her- ald, October 10, 1988, 1. 41. Personal interview with José Cruz, president of the Coalition, June, 1987. 42. Liz Balmaseda, “Exile Radio Makes Room for On-Air Moderates,” Miami Herald, 1C. 43. Alfonso Chardy, “Exilio amplia su espectro politico: perspectivas de cam- bios en la isla provoca revision de opciones,” El Nuevo Herald, November 4, 1A. 44. Liz Balmaseda, “New Cuban Lobby Still Seeking Focus,” Miami Herald, August 20, 1989, p. 1A. 45. Cuban-American National Foundation, Boletin Informativo (February 1991). notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 220

220 Notes to Pages 155–62

Chapter 7

1. For a sampling of the debates, see Susan Kaufman Purcell, “Cuba’s Cloudy Future,” Foreign Affairs 69, no. 3 (summer 1990): 113–30; and Gillian Gunn, “Will Castro Fall?” Foreign Policy 79 (summer 1990): 132–50. 2. María de los Angeles Torres, “Will Miami Be Next?” NACLA 24, no. 3 (November 1990): 27–39. 3. Lisandro Pérez, “Cuban Miami,” in Guillermo Grenier and Alex Stepick III, eds., Miami Now! Immigration, Ethnicity, and Social Change (Gainsville: Univer- sity of Florida Press, 1992), 83–108. 4. Joan Didion, Miami (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1987). 5. Penny Lernoux, In Banks We Trust (New York: Doubleday, 1984). 6. T. D. Allman, Miami: City of the Future (New York: Atlantic Monthly Press, 1987). 7. David Rieff, The Exile: Cuba in the Heart of Miami (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1993). 8. Thomas Paterson, Contesting Castro: The United States and the Triumph of the Cuban Revolution (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), 147. 9. See the accounts of Nicolas Sirgado Ros, “Ten Years as a Cuban Double Agent in the CIA,” Covert Action, no. 2 (October 1978). 10. For a detailed list of these acts, see “Dangerous Dialogue: Attacks on Free- dom of Expression in Miami’s Cuban Exile Community,” Report by America’s Watch 4, no. 7 (August 1992). 11. Liz Balmaseda, “Mandela, exiles have suffering in common,” Miami Herald, June 28, 1990, p. 1G; and Sergio López Miró, “Open Letter to Mandela,” Miami Herald, June 30, 1990, p. 26A. 12. Kevin Hill and Darío Moreno, “Second Generation Cubans,” Hispanic Journal of Behavioral Sciences 18, no. 2 (May 1996): 175–93. 13. Guillermo Grenier and Hugh Gladwin, “FIU 1997 Cuba Poll,” June 29, 1997, Florida International University, Miami, Florida. 14. Lydia Martin, “Finding My Father,” Miami Herald, June 18, 1995, 1J. 15. Tina Rathbone, “Cuban at Last,” Tropic, October 31, 1993, p. 8–11. 16. Lydia Martin, “The Call of Old Cuba,” Miami Herald, Nov. 9, 1993, 1E. 17. Liz Balmaseda, “A Song in Their Heart, Cuba in Their Eye,” Miami Herald, May 5, 1994, p. 1B. 18. Oswaldo Sanchez, “Utopía Bajo el Volcán: La Vanguardia Cubana en Mex- ico,” Plural (July 1992): 40–46. 19. Madelín Cámara, “Third Options: Beyond the Border,” Michigan Quarterly 33, no. 4 (fall 1994): 723–30. Also see Armando Correa, “Artistas cubanos de la tercera opcion,” El Nuevo Herald, January 8, 1993, p. 19D. 20. Marjorie Miller, “Cuba Art’s Quiet Exile in Mexico,” Los Angeles Times, January 1993. 21. Deborah Sontag, “Song in Exile,” New York Times, March 11, 1997, p. 1B. 22. I reviewed this exhibit for the Nation. María de los Angeles Torres, “Dream- ing in Cuban,” January 24, 1994, p. 95–97. 23. Interview with Teresita Fernández, November 1993. notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 221

Notes to Pages 163–69 221

24. Liz Balmaseda, “Castro’s Convertibles,” Miami Herald, Gallery sec., April 14, 1991, 1. 25. María Martinez-Cañas, “Piedras (Stones) Series” (catalog for an exhibit at Catherine Edelman Gallery, Chicago, September 1997), a conversation between artist and curator. 26. Cristina García, Dreaming in Cuban (New York: Alfred Knopf, 1992), 245. 27. “Bridges to Cuba: Puentes A Cuba.” Michigan Quarterly 33, nos. 3–4 (summer and fall 1994); later published as Ruth Behar, ed., Puentes a Cuba / Bridges to Cuba (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995). Also for an excellent discussion of this topic, see Jorge Duany, “Restructuring Cubaness: Changing Dis- courses of National Identity on the Island on the Diaspora during the Twentieth Century.” Paper presented at the International Congress of the Latin American Studies Association, Chicago, September 1998. 28. Granma, Editorial, November 4, 1988, in Circular #1249 of the Ministry of Foreign Relations. 29. Mirta Ojito, “The Real Thing? Miami Has Become the Ultimate Cuban Place, More Cuban than the Island Itself,” Miami Herald, Tropic sec., August 22, 1993, 27. 30. Gastón Baquero, “Literatura de cubanos en ingles,” El Nuevo Herald, June 19, 1993, 15a. 31. “El Amor Todo Lo Espera” (Message of the Cuban Conference of Catholic Bishops Havana, September 8, 1993); “Es posible conciliar voluntades,” El Nuevo Herald, September 29, 1994, p. 1. 32. Rafael Hernández, “La perla de las Antillas,” El Nuevo Herald, June 10, 1991, p. 8A. 33. In an essay that appeared in the Miami Herald, May 1, 1994, p. 1, Viewpoint, I explain the internal bureaucratic turf wars surrounding this conference. 34. Pablo Alfonso, “Díalogo crea discordia en La Habana,” El Nuevo Herald, April 20, 1994, p. 2A. 35. Roberto Robaina, minister of foreign relations, “Relaciones entre el país y la emigracion: Estado actual y perspectivas” (paper presented at conference on “La nación y la Emigración,” Havana, April 22–24, 1994). 36. Mimi White‹eld, “1978 Dialogue Recalled—but with Vital Differences,” Miami Herald, March 25, 1994. 37. Emilio Cueto, “Con todos y para el bien de todos,” El Nuevo Herald, May 5, 1994, p. 8A. 38. Comisión Preparativa, “Conferencia—La Nación y la Emigración: Convo- catoria,” Havana, Cuba, Minister of Foreign Relations, 1994. 39. Peter Katel and Carroll Bogert, “The Worms Become Butter›ies,” Newsweek, April 25, 1994, p. 38–39. 40. Pablo Alfonso, “Díalogo en Madrid,” El Nuevo Herald, September 8, 1994, p. 2. 41. Ramon Cernuda, “El díalogo mas di‹cil,” El Nuevo Herald, September 13, 1994, p. 8A. 42. Enrique Patterson, “Claro Mensaje de la Habana,” El Nuevo Herald, June 27, 1995, p. 8A. notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 222

222 Notes to Pages 169–91

43. Manny García, “Lively Debate on Disaster Relief for Cuba,” Miami Herald, October 20, 1996, 1C. 44. “Victims of Lili Need Help,” editorial, Miami Herald, October 19, 1996, 26A. 45. See, for instance, the ‹rst issue of La gran familia 1, no. 1 (October–Decem- ber 1995). 46. Interview with Abel Prieto, president of UNEAC, Contrapunto (spring 1995), 31–39. 47. Copy of the “Valen Todos” proposal sent to Jean Fischer, editor of Third Text, June 7, 1993. 48. Ivan de la Nuez, “Las dos Cubas,” Ajoblanco (June 1994): 19–22. Also see Rafael Rojas, El arte de la espera: Notas al margen de la política cubana. Editorial Colibrí 1998. 49. Tania Bruguera, Memoria de las posguerra (Havana) 1, no. 2 (June 1994). 50. Rafael Hernández, “Debate sobre Nación e Identidad,” Temas, no. 1 (Janu- ary–March 1995), 95–115; and “Soñar en ingles: Comunidad cubana, transcul- turación, cultura política,” MS. 51. For an island perspective on this period, see Ernesto Rodriguez Chávez, “La crisis migratoria Estados Unidos–Cuba en el verano de 1994,” Cuardenos de Nues- tra America 11, no. 22 (July–December 1994), 4–25. 52. The rafter phenomenon had begun in 1991; see Howard French, “Castro Reopens the Gate to Exodus,” New York Times, May 19, 1991, p. 1. 53. María de los Angeles Torres, “Exiles as Pawns,” Miami Herald, May 2, 1995, Viewpoint, p. 1.

Chapter 8

1. Rodolfo de la Garza, Louis DeSipio, F. Chris Garcia, John Garcia, and Angelo Falcón, Latino Voices: Mexican, Puerto Rican and Cuban Perspectives on American Politics (Boulder: Westview Press, 1992). The authors report that, when asked whether they are white, black, or another Latino category, Cubans over- whelmingly choose white. Obviously, Cubans still use home country referents to de‹ne their cultural identity, and indeed those who choose white were probably considered white in Cuba. But this does not change the fact that they were not considered “white” in the context of Southern politics. 2. I discuss the possible transitions in María de los Angeles Torres, “Autumn of the Cuban Patriarchs: After Castro and Más Canosa,” The Nation 265, no. 18 (December 1, 1997): 24–27. 3. See Frank Bonilla, “Rethinking Latino/Latin American Interdependence: New Knowing, New Practice,” in Frank Bonilla, Edwin Melendez, Rebecca Morales, and María de los Angeles Torres, eds., Borderless Borders: Latinos and the Global Society (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998), 217–30. 4. George Black, The Good Neighbor: How the United States Wrote the History of Central America and the Caribbean (New York: Pantheon Books, 1988). 5. For an excellent review of the race question, see Richard Delgado, ed., Crit- ical Race Theory: The Cutting Edge (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1995). notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 223

Notes to Pages 191–97 223

6. See, for instance, Gerald Torres, “The Legacy of Conquest and Discovery: Meditations on Ethnicity, Race and American Politics,” in Bonilla et al., Border- less Borders, 153–68. 7. Guillermo Gómez Peña, “Documented/Undocumented,” in The Opening of the American Mind (St. Paul, MN: Graywolf Press, 1992). Also see Renato Ros- aldo, Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis (Boston: Beacon, 1989). 8. Néstor García Canclini, Hybrid Cultures: Strategies for Entering and Leaving Modernity (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995). 9. See, for example, Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Grif‹ths, and Hellen Tif‹n, eds., The Post-Colonial Studies Reader (London: Routledge, 1995). 10. Homi Bhabha, “The Commitment to Theory,” The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 38. 11. Madelín Cámara, “Words without Borders,” in María de los Angeles Torres ed., By Heart / De Memoria: Unauthorized Travels to Nations and Exiles (ms, 1998). 12. Louis DeSipio, “Making Them Us: The Political Incorporation of Culturally Distinct Immigrant and Non-Immigrant Minorities in the United States,” in Gary Freeman and James Jupp, eds., Nations of Immigrants: Australia, the United States, and International Migration (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1992), 202–17. 13. Ira Katznelson, City Trenches: Urban Politics and the Patterning of Class in the United States (New York: Pantheon Books, 1981). 14. For a discussion of the various schools of multiculturalism, see David Theo Goldberg, Multiculturalism: A Critical Reader (Oxford: Blackwell Press, 1994). 15. Roger Rouse, “Mexican Migration and the Social Space of Postmod- ernism,” Diaspora: A Journal of Transnational Studies 1, no. 1 (spring 1991): 8–23. 16. Purnima Mankekar, “Re›ections on Diasporic Identities: A Prolegomenon to an Analysis of Political Bifocality,” Diaspora: A Journal of Transnational Stud- ies 3, no. 3 (winter 1994): 366. 17. For a nuanced discussion of this point, see, for instance, Michael Eric Dyson, “Essentialism and the Complexities of Racial Identity,” in David Theo Goldberg, ed., Multiculturalism: A Critical Reader (Cambridge: Blackwell Pub- lishers, 1994), 218–29. 18. Stuart Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” in Jonathan Rutherford, ed., Identity, Community, Culture and Difference (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1990), 222–37. 19. Chantal Mouffe, “Feminism, Citizenship and Radical Democracy,” in Judith Butler and Joan Scott, eds., Feminists Theorize the Political (New York: Routledge, 1992), 382. See also, Anne Phillips, Democracy and Difference (Univer- sity Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1993); and Iris Marion Young, “The Ideal of Community and the Politics of Difference,” in Linda Nicholson, ed., Feminism/Postmodernism (New York: Routledge Press, 1990), 300–23. 20. Edward Said, Representations of the Intellectual (New York: Vintage Books, 1996), 60. notes.qxd 10/11/1999 10:14 AM Page 224 index.qxd 10/11/1999 10:15 AM Page 225

Index

ABC Charters, 110 Arboleya, Jesus, 139–40 Abdala, 89, 114 Arce, Mercedes, 134, 135, 140 academia: exchanges in, 10, 99–100; Arcos, Gustavo, 137 on migration, 35, 134, 189 Areíto, 17, 89, 99 accords, 95–97, 153 Arenas, Reinaldo, 113 accountability, public, 180–81 armed action, 85 acculturation, 33 “Arte Cubana,” 162 activism, 60 Artime, Manuel, 47–49, 56 “Activities against the Castro artists, 138, 163–64, 187–88 Regime,” 63 arts and multiculturalism, 35 advocacy, 84, 85, 102 Aruca, Francisco, 148 African-American community, 122 assimilation, 33, 35, 165 agents, U.S., evacuating, 62 assistance, 63. See also aid Agrarian Reform Institute, 48 AT&T, 145 agreements, 95–97, 153 Auténticos, Los, 46, 49 Agrupación Católica, 47, 49 authoritarian political culture, 143 aid: to Cubans, 63, 72, 75, 99, 169; Avellaneda, Gertrudis Gómez de, 5, 39 opposition to, 80 Alarcón, Ricardo, 135–36 Baker, James, 66, 131 Alascon´ , Ricardo, 98 Baloyra, Enrique, 135, 149–50 Aldana, Carlos, 138, 139 Barba Roja, 111 Alfonso, Carlos, 113 Batista, Fulgencio, 6, 40, 46 Allen, Richard, 115 Bay of Pigs invasion, 1, 49, 58 Alpha 66, 85, 142–43 Before Night Falls (Arenas), 113 American Civil Liberties Union Behar, Ruth, 165 (ACLU), 101 Bell, Grif‹n, 96 American identity, 13 Bender, Frank, 56 annexationist, 165 Benes, Bernardo, 92, 96 anti-communists, 6 Benitez, Carlos, 121 anti-dialogue position: and isolation, Berlin Wall, 155 143–47; and military action, 141–43 Betancourt, Ernesto, 118, 131 anti-immigrant backlash, 32, 171–72 Bhabha, Homi, 192 antiwar movement, 89 bilateral issues, 151 Antonio Maceo Brigade, 8, 93–95, 100, bilingualism, 102, 193 148 black market, 108, 110 appointments, U.S., of Cubans, 121 Blanco, José Antonio, 136

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226 Index

Boi‹ll, Ricardo, 137 Central American immigrants to U.S., bombings, 84, 102, 140, 153. See also 36 terrorism Central de Acción Social Autónoma Bonilla, Frank, 19, 190 (CASA), 8, 17 Borge, Luis, 170 Central Intelligence Agency (CIA). See Bosch, Orlando, 78, 85, 113, 142 U.S. Central Intelligence Agency Bosch, Pepin, 78 (CIA) boundaries, nation and state, 166 centrists, 153–54 Boza, Juan, 113 Centro de Estudios de Alternativas Boza Masvidal, Eduardo, 101 Políticas, El (CEAP), 111–12, 135, “bridge generation,” 91 136, 170 “Bridges to Cuba,” 165 Centro de Estudios Sobre América, El bureaucracy, 168, 180; turf wars of, (CEA), 111, 134 96–97, 110–11, 134, 139–40 Cernuda, Ramón, 140–41, 145, 149, Bush, George, 130, 146 168 Bush administration, 145 Chase, Gordon, 82 business: of exiles, 110; opportunities, Chíbas, Eduardo, 47 180; sanctioned, 99 Chicano identity, 7–8 children, 66, 70–71; of the revolution, Calzón, Frank, 116 159, 161, 163 Cámara, Madelín, 152 Chilean immigrants to U.S., 36 Camarioca, 71, 96, 173–74, 216n. 32 CIA. See U.S. Central Intelligence Campaneria, Virgilio, 49 Agency (CIA) Canada, 144 Círculo de Cultura Cubana, El, 100 Cañas, Martinez, 164 citizenship, 20, 32, 102, 196; and iden- CANF. See Cuban-American National tity, 23, 26; U.S., 192–93 Foundation (CANF) Civic Resistance Movement, 47 capitalism, 16 civil rights movement, 89. See also care packages, 99. See also aid human rights Carillo, Justo, 56 Cladestino, 206n. 14 Carter, Jimmy, 91–92 Clark amendment, 116 Carter administration, 174 class, 161, 165–66; disaffected, 135; Casa de las Américas, 93 origins, 182; socioeconomic, 74–77. Castañeda, Consuelo, 164 See also identity Castillo, Lionel, 92 Cleveland, Ohio, 4–5 Castro, Fidel, 6, 136, 147, 168–69; Clinton, Bill, 146, 147, 172, 174 and Cuban exiles, 40, 98; and the coalitions, 153, 196 Dialogue, 93–94; and exile policy, coexistence in Miami, 158 119, 172–74 coherent existence, 200–201 Castro, Raul, 51 cold war, 29, 127, 155, 177, 197; and Castro government, 113. See also identity, 15–16 Cuban government collective understanding, 201 Catholic: Charities, 80; Church, 50; colonization, 39, 191 missionaries, 191 Commission of Broadcasting to Cuba, CBT Charters, 110 118 index.qxd 10/11/1999 10:15 AM Page 227

Index 227

Committees in Defense of the Revolu- Cuban-American Democratic Com- tion, 108 mittee, 124 Committee of 75, 98, 101 Cuban-American National Founda- common ground, 163 tion (CANF), 12, 126, 131, 172–74; communication, 145, 169 as anti-dialogue, 143–47; and elec- communism, 67 tions, 123; formation of, 115–18; Communist Party, 48, 136, 139, 153, and political signi‹cance, 183–85; 167–68; Congress, 218n. 19; direc- and State Department contract, 122 tives, 134; and in‹ltrators, 110–11 Cuban-American Pro-Family communities, Cuban exile. See exiles Reuni‹cation Committee, 148–49 communities abroad project, 10, Cuban-American Public Affairs 139–40 Council, 116 Conference of Black Lawyers, 101 Cuban Commission on Human Rights Conference on National Identity, 171 and National Reconciliation, 140 Confessions of a White Racist (King), 6 Cuban Committee for Democracy, consumer goods, 98, 108–9 152, 172, 185 contestation of home and host, 195–96 Cuban Communist Party. See Com- Contra Viento y Marea, 93 munist Party contributions to political candidates, Cuban communities in exile. See exile 132–33 Cuban Constitution, 139 Coordinadora de Derechos Humanos, Cuban Democracy Act, 144, 145, 147 La, 149–50, 185 Cuban émigrés. See émigrés; exiles Correa, Armando, 161 Cuban government, 18, 59, 77, 113; corruption, 109, 149 and Antonio Maceo Brigade, 8; and Cosa, La (The Thing), 89 cultural elites, 165; and discontent, cottage industries, 137 105, 108–9; leadership of, 198; and counterculture movement, 94 Mariel, 186; opposition to, 48, counterrevolution, 53, 79. See also 137–38; strategy of, 180–81. See also opposition Castro, Fidel “Criterio Alternativo,” 218n. 19 Cubania, 166 Crockett, George, 131 Cuban Liberation Council, 46, 47 Cruz, José, 148 Cuban Ministry of the Interior, 52, 92 Cruz Varela, Maria Elena, 20 Cuban National Planning Council, 84, Cuba, future of, 199–201 92 Cuban: domestic security, 60–61; Cuban Power, 85 enclave economy, 75 Cuban Refugee Program, 73 Cubana, 163 Cuban Research Institute (FIU), 165 Cuban Adjustment Act, 80, 174 Cuban Revolutionary Council, 78 Cuban-American: Democrats, 91, 147; Cubans in United States: appoint- vote, 123. See also identity ments of, 121; as Golden Exiles, 37; Cuban-American Bar Association, 147 and Latino community, 176; racism Cuban-American Coalition, 148–49 against, 5; status of, 69. See also Cuban-American Committee (CAC), exiles 99, 118, 148–49, 185; Second Gener- Cuban Socialist Youth, 90 ation Project of, 19, 151–52 “Cuban Unity against Castro,” 77 index.qxd 10/11/1999 10:15 AM Page 228

228 Index

Cuban visitors, 136–37 Didion, Joan, 158 Cuba-U.S. relations, future of, 12, Diego, Eliseo, 11 199–201 Directorio Estudiantil, El, 49 cultural: exchanges, 99–100; identity, Directorio Revolucionario, El, 46–47 34, 161, 165, 222n. 1; life, 113, discrimination, 7, 37, 73, 76, 85. See 138–39; pluralism, 194; practices, also racism 80–82 dissent, externalizing, 181 culture, 165–66; commodi‹cation of, Dodd, Thomas, 57–58 27; hybridity of, 192; of Miami, Dorticós, Osvaldo, 51 161–62 Dreaming in Cuban (Garcia), 164 dual citizenship, 52 Dade County, 102–3 Dukakis, Michael, 147 Dallas, Texas, 5 Dulles, Allen, 55 Davis, Manuel, 140 Duran, Alfredo, 92, 152 debate on dialogue, 140–41 decision making, in Cuba, 213n. 30 Echeverria, Antonio, 47 delegitimation, 59–60 economic policies and Cuban exile democracy, 173, 192–94 community, 122 Democratic Party in Florida, 184 economic resource, émigré community Democratic platform, 149–50 as, 180 denationalization, 165, 177 economic restructuring and socialist Department of the Americas, 110–11 bloc, 187 Department of the Study of the United economics: and discontent, 109; and States, 111–12 exiles, 14 depoliticization, 135 economy, Cuban, 12–13, 75 deportables, 117–18 economy, U.S., militarization of, 28 destiempo, 37 educational level and discrimination, destierro, 37 76–77 detente, 9, 94, 146 Eisenhower, Dwight, 55, 68 deterritorialization, 165 Eisenhower administration, 54 dialogue: anti forces on, 141–47; elections, 217n. 41; and Cuban émi- assumptions of, 152–54; debate on, grés, 121–24; and ethnicity, 146–47; 140–42; pro forces on, 148–52 methods of, 104, 184 Dialogue, The, 94–95, 97; backlash on elite Cuban exiles, 74, 165. See also members, 100–101; conceptual class framework of, 190–92, 195–96; and embargo, 92, 99, 130, 145–46 Mariel, 112; and suspension of emigrant versus exile, 167. See also accords, 119 exiles diaspora, 16, 22, 26–27, 176, 190–91. emigration, Cuban, 38–39, 72, 177; See also exiles academics on, 134; and consumer Diaspora: A Journal of Transnational goods, 108–9; Mariel, 107–8; polti- Studies (Tölölyan), 27 cization of, 53. See also exiles; immi- Diaz, Carmen, 148 gration Díaz, Jesús, 93, 120, 206n. 14 émigrés, 180; and cold war, 29–30; and Díaz Fanz, Pedro, 48 Mariel immigrants, 113; organiza- index.qxd 10/11/1999 10:15 AM Page 229

Index 229

tions, 180; and politics, 55, 114, family: reconciliation, 170; visits, 120 121–24; socioeconomics of, 74, 103. family, author’s, relocation of, 4–5 See also exiles favorite trading partnership, 127 empowerment movements, 197 Fernández, Aurelio, 78 enclave in Miami, 183. See also Miami Fernández, Irí Abrantes, 98 equality and socialism, 109 Fernández, Pablo Armando, 11 escoria (anti-Cuban term), 204n. 38 Fernández, Teresita, 162 ethnic: identities and U.S. political sys- Ferré, Maurice, 123 tem, 193; minority, 18; mobilization, 55 Hermanos, 93, 120 184–85; tension, 183 Florida, 121, 147, 184. See also Miami ethnicity, 125–26; in electoral arena, Florida International University 146–47 (FIU), 144 Evora, Antonio, 161 Font, José Antonio, 116 exchanges, academic and cultural, Fontaine, Roger, 114, 115, 147 99–100 foreign policy during Carter presi- exile versus emigrant, 167 dency, 91–92 Exile: Cuba in the Heart of Miami, The functions, 29; immigrants’ rights, 172; (Reiff), 35 and political signi‹cance, 182, 183, exiles, 37–38; activism, 60; and bureau- 186 cracy, 168; and Camarioca, 216n.32; Fortune 500 companies, 147 and economic policies, 122; as ethnic freedom ›ights, 173–74 minority, 18; as expendable, 197; Freedom Flotilla, 113 ›ow to U.S., 39–40; and GOP, 116; Frente Democrático Revolucionario groups, 58, 181; and identity, 84, (FDR), 63 198; labeling of, 165; and Latino Frente (Front), 56–57 studies, 36; lobby efforts of, 90, 99; Freyre, Ernesto, 78 in Miami, 155; and national security, future, perspective on, 12, 199–201 30; and national security agencies, 60–61; policies, U.S. and Cuban, Gaceta, 165 172–74; politics, 18, 31, 59–61, 77; Gallup poll, 147 realignment, 127; refugees, 26; and Garceran, Julio, 78 Republican Party, 122; studies of, García, Cristina, 164 42–43; as symbol, 173; U.S. govern- García, Nereida, 164 ment grants to, 75. See also Cubans Garcia Barcens, Rafael, 47 in United States; diaspora; émigrés; generations, 90, 140, 151, 163, 175; immigrants second, 159–61 Exilio, 42 geographic: boundaries and nation exit permits, 110. See also visas states, 22–23; construction of cul- exodus, 50–51. See also emigration, ture, 170 Cuban; Mariel; rafters Golden Exiles, 37, 155. See also exiles exploitation of returning exiles, 97 golpear arriba (strike at the top), 46 externalizing dissent, 181 Gómez, Andres, 93 Gómez Barratan, Jorgen, 167 Falk, Pamela, 131 GOP and Cuban exiles, 116 Fallon, Barbara, 80 Gran Familia, La (magazine), 170 index.qxd 10/11/1999 10:15 AM Page 230

230 Index

Granma, 165 37–38; and nation state, 35–36; and Grau, Polita, 49 politics, 125–26, 163. See also class; Grau, Ramón, 49 discrimination; racism Grau San Martin, Ramón, 46 ideology, 16, 31, 40, 103; diversity of, Greer, Nenita, and Pucho, 4 84; of policy changes, 94–95 Grobet, Lourdes, 170 Illinois, 145 Grupo de Reuni‹cación Familiar, El, illusion, 21 99 immigrants, 26, 84, 113, 182; backlash Guantanamo Bay, 172–73 against, 32, 171–72; communities of, gusanologos, 135 26, 189; and identity, 41; resettle- gusanos (worms), 51, 201n. 1, 204n. 38 ment of, 26, 81. See also exiles Gutierrez Menoyo, Eloy, 47, 78, 169 immigration, 23, 26; policy, 96–97, 117–19, 130, 134, 173 Haig, Alexander, 114 Immigration Act (1960), 68–69 Haiti, 36 Immigration and Naturalization Hart, Armando, 93 Service, 144 Havana, 105; comparisons to Miami, In Banks We Trust (Lernoux), 158 158 independence movement, 39 Havatas, 98 In‹nitas Formas de Tránsito, 162 Hawkins, Peter, 118 information material, ban on, 131–32 Helms-Burton Act, 13 Instituto de Estudios Cubanos, El Hemingway, Ernest, 105 (Institute of Cuban Studies), 88, 152, Hennessy, James, 69–70 164–65 Heredia, José María, 39 Instituto de Reforma Agraria, 48 Hermanos al Rescate (Brothers to the integration, cultural, 194 Rescue), 132, 172 intellectuals, 138, 166, 187–88, 191 Hernández, Frank, 116 intelligence gathering, 28 Hernández, Quisqueya, 162 Interconsult, 110 Hernández, Rafael, 136 interests sections, 91–92 Herrara, María Christina, 152, 167 intermediaries, 110 Holland, John, 80 international: culture, 192; pressure, homeland, 187 166; relations, Soviet and U.S., 29 homogeneity and nation states, 195 International Christian Democrats, human rights, 89, 120, 130–31, 150–51, 149–50 174; activists, 167; groups, 149, 154. Inter-University Program on Latino See also rights Research, 19, 189 Hurricane Lili, 169 intervention, and subversion, 114 Hurwitch, Robert, 67 intolerance, 159, 181. See also discrimi- hyphenated America, 34–35 nation; racism investments, 13. See also aid identity, 7–8, 13–15, 76, 164, 165–67, isolation: assumptions of, 152–54; 167; and citizenship, 23, 26; Cuban, policy, 71 14; debate, 170–71; de‹nition of, 14, 185–88, 191, 194–95; exile compo- Javitz, Jacob, 91 nent of, 41, 198–99; and memory, John Birch Society, 6 index.qxd 10/11/1999 10:15 AM Page 231

Index 231

Johnson, Lyndon B., 80 immigration, 112–13, 186. See also Jones, Roger, 69 rafters Joven Cuba, 89 marriage and emigration, 110 Junco, Tirso de, 118, 121 Martí, José, 39 Juventud Cubana Socialista, 90 Martin, Lydia, 160 Martínez, Milagros, 170 Kennedy, John F., 5, 55, 68 Martínez Cañas, María, 164 Kennedy, Robert, 79 Más Canosa, Jorge, 78, 131, 144, 174; King, Larry, 5–6 and CANF, 115, 116, 118 King, Mel, 101, 124 Masvidal, Raul, 123 Kissinger, Henry, 91 Matos, Huber, 48 Mederos, Elena, 48 labeling of exiles, 165–66. See also melting pot, 32–33 identity memorandum of conversation Lansdale, Edward, 79 (11/29/60), 63 Latin American Studies Association, memorandum of understanding 170 (11/6/65), 71 Latino, 8, 17, 36, 122–23, 190 Memoria de la posguerra, 171 leadership, 198 memory, 1, 37–38; and diasporic iden- Legion Acción Revolucionaria, 47 tity, 37–38. See also identity Lejania, 120 Menéndez, Emilio, 67 León, Juan, 165 Mesa-Gaido, Elizabeth, 163 Lernoux, Penny, 158 Mestizaje, 192 Lewis, Oscar, 43 metaphor, 21 liberal exiles, 160 Mexican immigrants to U.S., 36 Liberal Union, 149–50 Miami: Cuban exile, 4, 59, 73, 136, Life on the Hyphen: The Cuban-Ameri- 183; Cuban visitors to, 136–37; cul- can Way (Perez-Firmat), 35 ture of, 161–62, 175; images of, 155, lobbying efforts, 90, 99 158–59; and terrorism, 140, 142–43, local politics, 182, 184 153 lowlife, 201n. 1. See also gusanos Miami (Didion), 158 loyalty, 23, 32 Miami Herald, 144, 146; Spanish daily of, 160, 185 Maceo, Antonio, 93 “Miami Vice,” 158 Machado, Gerardo, 39 Michigan Quarterly, 165 Maidique, Modesto, 160 middle class, 76–77. See also class Mandela, Nelson, 159 Midland, 5–6 Mankekar, Purnima, 195 Milian, Emiliano, 85 Mann, Thomas, 55 militarism, 85, 141–42 Marazul Charters, 110 military training, U.S., of Cuban “Marcha del Pueblo Combiante, La” émigrés, 57 (March of the Fighting People), Ministry of Culture, Art Institute of, 108 138 marches, anti-dialogue, 153 Ministry of Foreign Relations, 111, Mariel, 18, 105, 174; generation, 160; 139–40 index.qxd 10/11/1999 10:15 AM Page 232

232 Index

Ministry of the Interior, 110, 111, 134, and identity, 13–14, 35–36 140, 170 Negrin, Eulalio, 101 minority, 103, 121, 125, 181, 189. See neocolonialism, 34 also class; identity New Latin American Policy for the Miró Cardona, José, 48, 59, 62 Eighties, A, 114 monocultural vision, 193 New Right, 114, 115; and right wing, Montaner, Carlos Alberto, 135, 149 125 Montiel, Magda, 20–21 New York Times, 47 Morales, Ricardo, 85 Nieves, Luciano, 85 Mouffe, Chantal, 196 Nixon, Richard, 55, 82 Movimiento Cristiano Liberación, 149 normalization, 98–105 Movimiento de Recuperacíon Revolu- nostalgia, 38, 186 cionaria, El, 49 Noto, Mario, 71 Movimiento Nacional Revolucionario, Nuevo Herald, 160 47 Nuevos Rumbos, 89–90 Movimiento 26 de Julio (M-26–7), 40, 46, 47 occupational status, 75 Müller, Alberto, 49 occupation status. See class; identity Muller, Therese, 80 Ojito, Mirta, 166 multiculturalism, 35, 194 Oliva, Erneido, 78 Muñiz Varela, Carlos, 9, 100 Omega 7, 100, 101 Museo de Arte Cubana Contempo- On Becoming Bilingual (Castañeda), ranea, 140 164 music, Cuban, 160 one-and-a-halvers, 159 Mussolini, Benito, 32–33 one-dimensional world of cold war, 197 “nación y la emigración, La” (confer- Operation Mongoose, 79 ence 1994), 167–68 Operation Pedro Pan, 7, 10, 66 National Association for the Advance- opposition: to Castro’s government, ment of Colored People (NAACP), 48; groups, 137–38 80 Organization of American States National Association of Latino Elected (OAS), 91 and Appointed Of‹cials, 123 Ortega, Katherine, 122 National Coalition for a Free Cuba, other as identity, 199 116, 117 National Endowment for Democracy Pablo Milanes Foundation, 201n. 3 (NED), 117, 146 Padilla, Felix, 34 National Geographic, 155 parallelism, 18 nationalism, 16, 39, 51, 177, 186 Partido del Pueblo Cubano Ortodoxo, National Lawyers’ Guild, 101 47 national security, 28, 53–54, 111, 177 Partido Socialista Popular. See Com- national sovereignty, 144, 147 munist Party Nation and Its Émigrés, The (confer- patria potestad, 50 ence, Cuba, 1994), 167–68 patriotism, 50–51 nation state, 22–23, 187–89, 194–95; Patterson, Enrique, 169 index.qxd 10/11/1999 10:15 AM Page 233

Index 233

Patton, Arthur, 73 public accountability, 180–81 Paya, Oswaldo, 149 public affairs and diaspora communi- Pell, Claiborne, 91, 130, 145 ties, 27 Pérez-Firmat, Gustavo, 35 public culture, 193 Pérez-Stable, Marifeli, 167 Puerto Rican Socialist Party, 8, 17 perspective for future, 12, 199–201 Puerto Rico: immigrants to U.S., 36; Peruvian government, 105 and terrorist groups, 101 pharmacies, 99 Phillips, R. Hart, 47 race, 222n. 1; and Cuban exiles, 76; Piad, Dr. Carlos, 67 and political socialization, 34 Piñeiro, Manuel, 111 racism, 5–6, 190–91. See also discrimi- pluralization, 88–89, 194 nation policy, exile, 94–95, 134, 172–74 Radio José Martí, 9, 118–19 political candidates, contributions to, radio personalities, 149 132–33 rafters, 132–33, 172. See also Mariel political organizations, 143, 196. See Ramos, Felix, 186 also under speci‹c organizations Raphael, Natalia, 165 political prisoners, 96–99, 109, 159, Rapid Response Brigades, 20 206n. 19 rapprochement, 98–105 political signi‹cance and foreign pol- Rasco, José Ignacio, 56 icy, 182–86 Rathbone, Tina, 160 politics, 38–39, 102–4, 176–77, 195, Ray, Manuel, 48, 62, 78 198; and CANF, 146; culture of, 14, Raza Unida, 7, 17 141, 143, 154, 185–88; and identity, Reagan, Ronald, 105, 116, 121 23, 26, 125–26, 193; of Miami, 175; Reagan administration, 9, 117, 125, mythology of, 173; participation in, 148 33, 103, 182–83, 188–89; positions realignment, 141 of, 152–54, 160; and socialization, rebels, 48 34–35 Rebozo, Bebe, 82 population, Cuban, in United States, reconciliation, 21, 103, 111–12, 130, 40, 83 138 postrevolution exile, 42 reform, 140 power struggle, 127; within exile com- Refugee Center, 73 munity, 153; U.S.-Cuba, 173 refugees, 26, 67–68, 81; aid to, 63, 72, presidential campaigns, 132, 146 80 (see also aid). See also exiles pressure group methods, 104 Refugio, El, 73 Prieto, Abel, 139, 170 Reich, Otto, 121 private education, 50 Reina Elizabeth, La, 139 Prodemca, 117 relocation, 73–74, 80 pro-dialogue forces, 148 remembering, role of, 164 pro-family organizations, 150 remittances, 168 progressives, 119, 120, 124 Representación Cubana en el Exilio propaganda, 67 (RECE, Cuban Representation in properties, con‹scation of, 52 Exile), 115 psychologists on identity debate, 171 repression, 49, 159, 187, 194–95 index.qxd 10/11/1999 10:15 AM Page 234

234 Index

Republican National Committee self-suf‹ciency, 183 (RNC), 123 settlement patterns, 22 Republicans, 121–23, 181 Shain, Yossi, 39 Rescate Revolucionario, 49 Simon, Paul, 145 resettlement, 26, 81 Smith, Earl, 54 revolution, 30, 42, 43, 177; and cold Smith, Wayne, 118 war, 15–16; cultural elite of, 161; Socarrás, Carlos Prío, 40, 46 legitimacy of, 51; propaganda Social Democrats, 149–50 against, 67–68; U.S. hegemony in socialism, 16, 109, 149, 187 the Caribbean and, 54 social sciences, 35, 188–89 Ribicoff, Abraham, 68 social service movement, 88 Richmond, Gerald, 123 socioeconomics, 74 Rieff, David, 158 Sorzano, José, 121 rights, 196. See also human rights South American immigrants, 36 right wing, 114, 115, 124–25, 172 sovereignty, 144, 147 Ríos, Alejandro, 161 Soviets, 29, 114, 173 Risquet, Jorge, 135–36 Spanish American League against Rivera, Paquito de, 113 Discrimination (SALAD), 85 Robaina, Roberto, 169 Spanish colonialism, 39 Rodriguez, Albita, 161 Spiral, 162 Rodriguez, Félix, 115 state and nation, 187–88. See also Rollason, Wendell, 67, 70 nation state Roman, Augustin, 101 stereotypes, 146–47. See also identity Ros-Lehtinin, Ileana, 123 St. Mary’s University (Nova Scotia, Rouse, Roger, 195 Canada), 135 Rubeira, Vincente, 78 strategy of Cuban government, 180–81 Rumbeaut, Ruben, 159 Súarez, Xavier, 123 Rutgers University, Constitutional subversion and intervention, 114 Legal Clinic, 101 symbol, exiles as, 67–68, 173 Ruíz, Albor, 98 syncretism, 192, 195

Said, Edward, 197 Taladri, Raul, 168 Salvat, Juan Manuel, 47, 49 Tapia Ruana, Alberto, 49 Sánchez, Elizardo, 137–38, 149 terrorism, 82, 100–104, 142–43. See Sanchez Arango, Aureliano, 56 also bombings sanctioned businesses, 99 think tanks, 111 Santa Fe group, 114, 130 Tölölyan, Khachig, 26 Sardiña Sanchez, Rafael, 56 Toriac, José, 170 Schlesinger, Arthur, Jr., 29, 58–59 Torres, Alicia, 119 second generation, 90, 140, 159–61, Torres, María de los Angeles, 1, 4–6, 163, 175 11; and identity, 8, 198–200; Second Generation Project, 151 research on exiles, 19–20 secrecy, 1, 181 Torrey, Charles, 63 Segundo Frente de Escambray, 47 Torricelli, Robert, 145 self-employment patterns, 76 Torriente, José Elías de la, 85 index.qxd 10/11/1999 10:15 AM Page 235

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tourist visas, 133 U.S. National Security Council, 28 trading partnership, favorite, 127 U.S. Of‹ce of Strategic Services (OSS), Trading with the Enemy Act, 131 28 transculturation, 192 U.S. State Department, 7 transnationalism, 27, 176–77, 188 U.S. Treasury Department, 140 travel agencies, 99, 109–10, 149 travel restrictions, 92, 117, 119, 136, Valladeres, Armando, 130, 131 216n. 24; easing of, 133, 186–87; Varadero, 71 exemptions to, 90; unipolarity of, Varona, Manuel Antonio (Tony) de, 197. See also embargo; visas; visits 49, 56, 67 treason, 59–60 Venceremos Brigade, 7 Trinchera (newspaper), 49 Viajes Varaderos, 100 TV Martí, 131 Vigia, 165 26th of July Revolution Movement, 40, visas, 96; and CANF, 144; procedures 46, 47 for, 69–71; waivers of, 62–64, 66–67. See also travel underground, children of, 66 visits: and consumer goods, 108; as Unidad Revolucionaria, 49 cottage industries, 137; to Cuba, Union of Writers and Artists 8–9; limits on, 119; to United States, (UNEAC), 165, 171 136–37. See also travel United States: administrations, 184; visual art, 162 Cuban exiles to (See exiles); Cuban Voice of the Americas, 118 visitors to, 136–37; and Cuba rela- Voorhees, Tracy, 68 tions, future of, 12, 199–201; foreign voting, 102 policy, 59–61; grants to Cuban exile Voting Rights Act, 193 community, 75 (See also aid); and Latin American relations, 36, 177; Walsh, Father Bryan, 66, 70 policy in Cuba, 55–59, 82, 174, 180 Washington, Harold, 124, 217nn. 40, University of Florida, 89 41 University of Havana, 50, 111, 170, Western European immigration: to 171 U.S., 32 University of Miami, 85, 144 Whalen, Charles, 91 urban vote, 123–24 Winston, Dr. Ellen, 70 Urrutia, Manuel, 48 World Council of Churches, 101 U.S. Central Intelligence Agency worms (gusanos), 51, 201n. 1, 204n. 38 (CIA), 7, 11, 28, 49, 96; intervention, writers, children of revolution as, 55–59 163 U.S. Espionage and Sedition Acts, 32 U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation Yglesias, Manuel, 121 (FBI), 101 Young Communists Party, 168 U.S. House Committee on the Judi- ciary, 68 Zero Option, 136